The Art of Subconscious Illusion: Rewritten
by Ruin Takada
Summary: The rewritten version of the original well-loved fic, this better portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. Full summary inside. Rated T for now, and Shonen-ai in later chapters.
1. Tension

**Full Summary: The rewritten version of the original well-loved fic, this portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. One week is all that is allotted for him and his team to save Kira from the world and himself…and House's neck is on the line.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I own House, MD. I do not own music by Avenged Sevenfold, nor the band themselves. I own this plot and this writing, and a few characters, but they are my own, and you will know them when you see them. Finally, I do not make money from this story, but my web-provider does. **

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Chapter I

Tension

Mid-April 2006

The fluorescent lights overhead shone brightly in the 3rd year classroom, blinking at intervals. The students at their desks were in complete silence, but for the rare cough from a classmate sitting in the third row, the sound echoing around the room in time to the shuddered bobbing of her dyed-blonde head. The sound was harsh and sudden, causing her classmates to wince with each cough. Even the visiting teacher standing at the front – known to all as the 'Invigilator' – felt the tension emanating off the student, following their lead.

Passing a glance to his watch, the Invigilator signalled to the Civics teacher, who proceeded to hand out exam papers to the students, going column by column. "When you all have an exam paper," said the Invigilator, surveying the room with a practiced glare, scrutinising the students one by one, "write your name, candidate number, and centre number in the appropriate spaces provided. When you've filled in the cover, wait for my signal. Remember: Read the questions carefully before answering, and make sure your handwriting is legible. This is just a practice paper, but you should all know the drill by now!"

The second hand on the clock upon the wall ticked closer to the hour, the sound of a pencil tap joining the blinking lights. The blonde-haired girl in the third row coughed again as everyone around her scribbled, her throat feeling more itchy and sore with every splutter. "You will be expected to finish this exam within the two hour time limit. You're missing gym class for this, so I expect complete silence." He glared at the blonde pointedly, and she was stifled.

"Right," he smiled – or was that a sneer? – "Your exam starts… now!" Simultaneously, everyone picked up their pens, turned over the cover and began scribbling furiously. Already, it was clear that very lives were at stake if any one of them achieved a below-average score, that they would end at the hands of the Invigilator himself.

An hour into the exam and the blonde was still coughing loudly, putting her pen down every few minutes to lift her hand to her face and cough. Yet, the sound still echoed around the classroom, becoming harsher and harsher, the lights blinking faster and faster, and the nervous pencil tap against a wooden desk only adding to the rising tumult. Finally, she stopped, her throat newly lubricated. She lifted her hand away to show crimson staining the palm. A shot of terror stabbing through her spine, she put her bloody hand up, only to find that someone else had caught the Invigilator's attention: One of her classmates, a tall brown haired boy, was walking to the front, exam paper in hand, his left hand twitching just slightly.

The Invigilator walked the few steps towards him, placing a hand gently on his left arm. The boy flinched, the undue affection too painful to bear, "What are you doing?" The Invigilator asked, muttering quietly, aiming not to disturb the others, "You still have an hour to finish the exam, yet."

"No," the boy replied, "I've finished." The hand twitched again, this time the spasm running full through the arm. The Invigilator noticed, and tightened his grip on his shoulder.

"Are you all right? Is anything wrong?"

The boy's hand flexed at this, and he gave a smile, like the devil. "No," he answered, his voice almost a whisper, "there's nothing wrong with me…" Suddenly, one quick movement, barely a blink, the Invigilator was pinned against the blackboard, the boy holding him by the collar. The Civics teacher dropped to the ground in horror, and the students looked up from their papers in unison, unable to believe the sight. The students on the first few rows stood up, loathing the idea of being too close.

"But there is something wrong with _you_." sneered the boy. The voice was hushed, yet carried through the room with ease. "Every crime you have committed… Every person you have hurt… Every lie you have uttered to save your own _worthless_ skin…" The Satanic smile creaked through his mouth, his white teeth almost bared. His eyes seemed to glow red in the sporadic lights, dim but threatening, and his fists began to shake. No, _really _began to shake. The Invigilator couldn't speak; too caught up in a state of shock, he could only widen his eyes yet more for the transformation.

"Do not worry," he mocked, relishing in the man's fear, finding joy in his terror, "your end shall be swift – your guilt and what conscience you have will have tortured you enough…" One hand left his collar; the Invigilator almost broke out a sigh of relief – not for long, for it snapped into place at his throat. "However, the soul of that _poor boy_ calls out for at least some degree of pain!" The lights flickered quicker and quicker, struggling like the students to do anything else, their mouths open like koi carp at the blooming madness.

The hand clenched tighter, crushing hard, and the man gasped out in suffocation. He grasped at the boy's wrist, made to pull it away, but his captor just clenched tighter, and he was floundering once more. His movements were slowing though, becoming sluggish. Time slowed with him.

"This world is rotting…" The boy whispered, his head lowered, spoken like a prayer to God. "And you cannot be a part of the revolution." The Invigilator gasped. His heart stopped. _This… this student was going to… he was going to…_ No grown man had ever dared to do this, so how could a mere boy…? No… he could, and he would. He would enjoy it, take pleasure in the act.

That boy was the Devil himself.

Time came back full force. The lights flickered so strongly, blindingly fast, truly strobing. Close to breaking point. The grip relaxed, and, able to breathe again, the Invigilator looked up into the face of his would-be killer. The boy's eyes widened, no longer seeing. His mouth went slack. With barely a word, he collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing sickeningly. Female classmates screamed, covering their eyes. The Civics teacher picked herself off the floor to attempt emergency procedures, picking up and dropping her cell phone to the floor, hands shaking. His friends, his classmates all called out to him, yelling at him, begging him to snap out of it – but, fitting, nigh on screaming himself, the boy couldn't respond to them even if he tried.

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**A/N. This is the first new chapter of AoSI: R. This one is definitive. No more changes, no more rewrites. This is also the new format for author notes. Tell me what you think? Enjoy.**

**Thanks,**

**Ruin Takada XXX**


	2. An Epic of Time Wasted

**Full Summary: The rewritten version of the original well-loved fic, this portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. One week is all that is allotted for him and his team to save Kira from the world and himself…and House's neck is on the line.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I own House, MD. I do not own music by Avenged Sevenfold, nor the band themselves. I own this plot and this writing, and a few characters, but they are my own, and you will know them when you see them. Finally, I do not make money from this story, but my web-provider does. **

**Dedication(?): To MadForBeyond, for reminding me of the beauty of Jason Voorhees. Also, to the wonderful world of video games on various platforms. You'll know what I mean. **

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Chapter II

An Epic of Time Wasted

September 7th 2006

Making her usual morning rounds of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, it was 8AM when Dr Lisa Cuddy walked into the office of Dr Gregory House, the brilliant rays of the New Jersey sunrise falling through the glass windows, giving her white open-top blouse a gorgeous covering of honey. The miserable coot was lazing about on his swivel chair with his feet on the desk, his casual clothing re-worn from yesterday and creasing further as he played a Nintendo DS game in an animated manner. From the sound of the blasts, she guessed it was one of those glorified arcade throwbacks from the 80s. In reality, she didn't even need to guess, because she wasn't the least bit surprised in any case.

So far, he hadn't noticed the intrusion, and so she decided against the usual announcement of her presence and paced the room silently to the desk, picking up papers and case files at random, finding his cane hung on one end of the table top. Every now and again, she'd skim-read them, then put them back on the desk in newly-made piles, thinking of the look on the miserable coot's face when she'd remind him about the paperwork deadline later, and he wouldn't be able to find anything he needed. As the Dean of Medicine, and therefore House's pay-check-signer, and therefore boss, it was her job to keep him 'on his cane', as it were.

"Well, well, well," House smirked, the console chirping with an anticipating sort of noise, "If it isn't my arch-nemesis…" Cuddy's head snapped up, ready to retort, but he cut across her. "…Dr Wily!"

Her mouth was still open when he began mashing buttons again, and that was how it stayed for a whole minute, her arms akimbo. She sighed. "This must be a new low for you – 8 in the morning and you're already 'baked'" She marked the term with air quotes. "I'm Dr _Cuddy_, remember?"

That was when House actually looked up, still smirking as he put the DS on the desk. "Oh, you're here. Actually, I did mean Dr Wily – you're not my arch-nemesis more than my personal entertainer, especially with that blouse." Cuddy looked down, then looked back up at him, aghast – but not really. The shock value had long since dried up.

"Speaking of entertainment," the Dean said, spearing the doctor with her eyes by will alone, "here's the line-up: Dr Gregory House to perform in Examination Room 1, starting _half-an-hour_ ago!"

"Oh, come on!" House retorted, practically whined, "it's early September – all we'll have are senseless school kids getting cooties from the other kids, accompanied by their even more senseless parents; and they'll still be here tomorrow telling me how to do my job. They don't even need me to get better."

"And how many times have you gone down and actually found someone seriously needing you to get better?" That stopped the man in his tracks – he put his hand to his face, stroking his chin as though actually counting the occasions.

"Hmm," he began, "fifty bucks says you can't guess the number, sweet cheeks. You game?"

"_Ugh!_ I've no time for this!" She'd practically growled at him. "With the clinic's new early hours, and puke in the waiting room, we need everyone on deck, and all you can think about is Mega Man!"

House looked almost stunned this time. Surely it didn't take such a little poke to tip her over the edge? "I was willing to wait for you to get off your ass and get down there, but if you can't keep your mind on medicine, you can crawl!" To prove her point, she picked the cane from its hanging position on the desk, holding it away as House made to stand.

"_Crawl?_ Won't people _die_ if I do? Or doesn't that matter as long as you've got a hold of some poor shmuck by the staff?"

"Fine, give me three good reasons why I should give it back… _and _take you off clinic hours!"

"Fine," he repeated, "Everybody lies, so I'll be wasting my time with chit chat like usual and I've gotta be at the battle stations ready for the next big bad case of the week – I can't let some poor dear be left in the incapable hands of someone like Dr Gilmore, who can't tell his kidneys from his gall stones on a good day when they're, I don't know... dying of Lupus or something."

"House," Cuddy sighed, "it's never Lupus."

"Well," he shrugged, "you never know. Today might just be my lucky day. It'd be even luckier if I could win my bet with Wilson: If I complete my game by ten o'clock today, I get one hundred smackers and unlimited prescriptions until 2007."

Cuddy just shuck her head, "And I thought the point of being a doctor was getting to write your own prescriptions."

"Try telling that to the fellas down in Pharmaceuticals – they keep coming up with empties. Do you think they're on to me?" He whispered conspiratorially.

"If they aren't on to you by now they never will be, and they're not: I told them to. You really need to cut your daily doses before you're too stone-baked to do your job, and I thought I could get the Pharmacy in on it. Go to the clinic, House: Some dumb bet with Wilson is no reason not to treat people." Sighing again, she handed him the cane and made for the door, beckoning the doctor to follow. "Finish your game on your own time and tell him you thought he meant 10_PM_, and get one of your lackeys to back it up for you."

"Which one?"

She gave a look of disbelief, then sighed again. "Cameron. She's so honest she could convince me I have four children, and that you're one of them."

House couldn't argue with that. Or rather, he didn't want to – it was too early in the morning for that much effort, and Mega Man had taken most of the coffee-induced energy already. Sighing, he held his hand out for his cane, and Cuddy gave it back. Pocketing his DS, he led the way limping out of his office, Cuddy falling in step beside him once out the door. "You know, House," Cuddy said, allowing a smile to creep onto her face, "This has to be the first time I've seen you speechless. I think I'd like to see that more often."

They made their way to the lift, which opened for them on cue. Once upon a time, it might have caused amazement at the clockwork performance of this feat for House and House alone, but now, it was just supposed that 'the lift knows better'. When the doors opened, it was already half-full, occupied by a doctor, two surgeons in scrubs, and a visiting couple – the girl, East Asian and dark-haired, had her arms linked with the black-haired young man, a pink Nike cap pulled on his head and over his face in a manner that must have been in jest. Overall, not at all remarkable in such a setting as this.

"Yeah," House replied, as he and his boss boarded the lift, "and I'd like to see your _ass_ more often, but that isn't likely to happen in the future, now is it?" Cuddy just responded with a dumbfounded look, as did the rest of the lift-travellers as the lift door shifted shut in front of them. "Sure, blame me!" the diagnostician said, sounding suitably scandalised. He turned to the pink-capped man behind him, squinting his eyes. "But you saw the way they were looking at me!"

When the lift doors opened again, it was for the walk-in clinic, the whole lift seeming to resume breathing as the cripple and the Dean stepped off for their destination. No one else stepped off, too relieved to do anything as the lift doors closed again, and the cage lazily surrendered to gravity and its 21st century pulley system to the next floor below. As House made to go through the official clinic entrance, Cuddy stopped outside it, grabbing House's arm to make him stay put. "Before I forget, House, you've got a date with the local detective in about two hours or so, so go have your lunch break early to sort that out. Apparently – and don't quote me on this – it's something to do with a missing shipment of pain-relief medication, an opiate of some sort..."

House rolled his eyes. "I get it, Miss Boss Lady: Do my clinic hours, cut my dosage."

Cuddy nodded. "That's right. Now, go get 'em, tiger!" She made a hammed up motion to spank him, but he dodged it easily with a forward hip motion, and he limped off into the clinic, waving idly at her behind his back. The waiting room that greeted him was packed up to the near brim – apparently, vomit on the floor was not even half of the problem that morning.

Stopping at the desk, and looking through the small pile of clipboards on his in-pile, he made his grand entrance.

"Good morning-" At that moment, a cough chose that time to erupt from his end of the room, drowning out his introduction. As it spluttered on and on, House took a glance at his wrist watch. About two minutes later, and the culprit had been spotted, a teenage girl that House wasted no time in glaring at, before moving grandly on.

"I am Dr Gregory House," he continued, "and I'll be in Examination Room 1 today. If you are on my hit list here," he waved his clipboard, "then you'll come forward and I'll deal with you accordingly. If you're not, then why are you even here? It's not like your sick friend even likes you.

"Meanwhile… my house, my rules: If you sneeze or puke on me, I'll rip your face off; if you bring in any food or drink, you either don't spill or dispose; any alcohol, and you've officially gifted it to me. All know-it-all relatives who'd rather spout differential diagnoses courtesy of Dr Wikipedia before listening to me should be left at the door… here." With a smack of his cane, he hit the floor a clear six feet before the entrance to Examination Room 1, making several people jump. The blonde teenager coughed again.

"Anyone thinking I'll be playing games today is most obviously high. If you've any narcotics, you can dispose of them into my pocket." Giving something of a staged sigh as he leaned against the desk, he took a look at his clipboard, then at the crowd of trespassers, then back at the clipboard again.

"Well, it looks like the House party has officially begun, if the first poor shmuck will come this way…" Gesturing in the general direction of his Examination Room, he turned to look over his shoulder, where Dr Cuddy was still standing just outside the confines of the Clinic, a look of mild outrage lightening her features, her hands out and almost begging for an explanation. Permissing just a tiny smirk on his face in her direction, there was a wink, and then the back of his head again as he limped off into the Examination Room.

It was the perfect place for awaiting his first victim of the morning.

* * *

Half an hour into the shift, and it was the blonde teenager's turn to take the walk into the Examination Room. Dressed head-to-toe in the latest high street fashions, she was attractive up close, but both physically and actually too young for him to be interested. Not only was she a little too under-developed to properly compete with the standard that Cuddy had long ago set, but she clenched a packet of potato chips and a clipboard in one hand and a bloody Kleenex in the other. Unfortunately, all of those were negatively affecting her chances with him. Sitting down on the examination table, she coughed loudly into the tissue, a significant amount of blood staining it immediately.

"So you see," she wheezed, handing House her clipboard, "I'm just coughing up blood all the time! My legs have been feeling really sore lately too, and I've been losing, like, a ton of weight." Her tissue remained at her mouth through the whole speech, and House for once was glad that American teenagers were inherently loud. "I told my Mom, and she thinks I've got T.B or something. It's not T-" suddenly, she collapsed into a fit of coughing, holding her side and letting her potato chips fall onto the table. That went on for about three minutes before she stopped. "…B is it?" she finally finished.

House merely leafed through the sheets attached to the clipboard before sighing loudly, "According to your medical history here," he said, "you're American, middle-class, and do you know what all middle-class Americans have in common?"

The girl shook her head slowly. When it was painfully clear that she didn't know the answer, House supplied it for her. "T.B shots – everyone's had them. Since you've no history of cancer on the ol' clipboard, I'm just gonna take a look in there and see what middle-class Americans _don't_ have in common." Standing up, the diagnostician took out a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser on the wall, snapped them on, and picked up what looked to be a Popsicle stick. He took the bloody tissue out of the girl's hand, throwing it deftly into the trash can in the corner. A momentary, celebratory air-punch was allowed. "Now, open your mouth and say 'ah'."

Suddenly, the door swung open with a clatter. Dr Wilson rushed in, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, wheezing, out of breath, unable to speak momentarily. His lab coat was creased and spotted with blood. Even House had to admit that this sight was unusual, seeing as how Dr Wilson's patients preferred to keep their blood to themselves (or rather, they couldn't afford not to).

"What is it this time?" House asked, sighing, turning to face the oncologist.

"I… uh… it's…"

"Don't tell me you lost _another_ wife…" House shook his head tutting, and turned to the teenager, muttering, "He's always doing that. Seriously," back to the oncologist, "you should put a bell on that thing, maybe give her some cake every once in a while-"

"What are you…talking…?" Wilson began. He was still out of breath – apparently, years spent either behind a desk or at bedsides comforting cancer kids had not been very kind to him in the department of physical fitness. House would have been worried about the paunch his lunch buddy was developing, but as it gave him a significant advantage over Wilson in terms of possible emergency situations in which escape from psychos and/or flesh-eaters was paramount, and he was proud of his lack of responsibility for him (moral or otherwise), he never saw the point in mentioning it straight away.

Maybe in a different context? When he can strip him of just a little bit more of his confidence at the same time? Yeah, that sounded like a date.

"Wait, there's cake?" The blonde teen asked.

"No," House said. "There was never any cake."

"So, wait…" she paused to think, sadly, "You lied to me…?"

House would have said something, but the early morning start and the blood spots on Wilson's lab coat told him to just give an exasperated sigh, let it go and perhaps focus on the real issue at hand. Turning decidedly to Wilson alone, he raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

"There's a major incident going on at check-in." Wilson finally said.

"Major?" House asked. "Are we talking 'World-Trade-Centre' major, or… 'Jerry-Springer' major?'

Wilson shook his head. "Neither. 'Jason-Voorhees' major – but he can talk."

House gave a low whistle. "Wow. That _is _major. What do you want me to do about it?"

Wilson looked floored. To his credit, he'd put up with way too much over the years, but this, after a long sprint and the recent memory of who-knows-what, was taking the biscuit right now. "What do I want you…?" He just paused out of severe frustration. "There's a homicidal mental patient on the loose back there! Five bystanders are injured and an ex-convict on life-support has been plugged out! We need all the help we can get for this one, and all I was thinking at the time between _'Why God, why!' _and _'Keep him away from Oncology!'_ was _'Hey! I bet my _crazy_ best friend can match him – and he's armed too!'_ Can you blame me?!"

House, to his credit, had seen way too many cases and battled way too many pathogens to be particularly impressed – mental illness was potentially diagnostically boring and not his field of expertise by any stretch of the imagination. Wilson should have kept that in mind when all House replied with was, "That explains the Jason Voorhees metaphor. I take it he's not armed this time around?"

"Of course not, this is a hospital! He's bare-handed, but he definitely knows what he's doing!"

"Knows what he's doing…? So isn't 'mental patient' a bit of a stretch if he _knows_ what he's doing? Any psychosis?"

"Apart from a mad look in his eye and a murderous intent, you mean? He's yelling something about 'Kira' and 'sins' and when I left, he'd just announced every skeleton in Dr Freeman's closet, everything from backdoor-dealings to steamy affairs, none of which he could've known before-" Suddenly, House raised a hand to silence the oncologist.

"Did you say 'Kira'?" House asked, his head tilted to the side, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?"

"What's that got to…" House shuck his head. "This is _Kira_ we're talking about, not Jason! A serial killer who took criminals out en masse on an international level! Once upon a time, he was making my job easier by doing for a hobby what I've been doing all my life – within reason, of course – and you're asking me why I'm not concerned?"

"No, I'm asking you why it's relevant. I knew you'd be at least a little concerned, what with how all over the Kira case you were last year." Wilson had to roll his eyes at this point, remembering the memory with some distain – House really was 'all over it', talking about the case non-stop when he didn't have a case of his own to solve.

House shrugged. "He was killing with heart attacks – it was and still _is_ a medical and logical impossibility. Of course I'd be all over it." Almost absent-mindedly, he picked the packet of potato chips off the examination table, and began silently wrestling the bag open. "You didn't say the psycho was killing with heart attacks now, but he's still making a big show of the Kira meme? Just sign me up and my team will be in his room faster that you can say 'Friday the 13th'."

That was the part where Wilson just wanted to sob out of frustration. "I can't." he said.

The packet burst open, chips flying free to the floor. "What?"

"He doesn't have a room. He only got here fifteen minutes ago from another hospital, and then he went mad – has been for a good five minutes now – and half your team's already charged in like the Light Brigade. Chase and Foreman, specifically."

"What?!" The blonde jumped at the diagnostician's outburst, letting out a high-pitched squeal of terror. "Have you completely lost your mind? If he's been transferred in, how come he's not been assigned a room? Surely that detail would have been sorted out! And what about sedating the maniac? Has nobody heard of simple, cost-effective sedatives these days?!"

"Dora must have been on duty then!"

"And no one thought to cover her ass as usual and actually put him somewhere? The psycho will be taking out the Pharmacy soon, and then _no one_ will have their sedatives! Dammit Wilson, just go on ahead!" Wilson shot mutely off at that, but not quite at break-neck speed. Finally, Housed was alone with the blonde girl once more, and she was feeling quite forgotten.

"What about me?" She asked. Surely this curmudgeon wasn't going to leave her here without actually treating her, right?

"Oh, you're still here?" He asked, turning to face her. "Congratulations, Pookie-Doll, you don't have T.B."

"_Pookie-Doll?_" She choked out.

"No, you just have a small incision at the back of your mouth from all those tasty potato chips of yours." He held the packet up and rustled it slightly, the top held firmly closed. Holding them up further, he checked out the front of the packaging. "Mmm, consommé flavour."

"Is there… is there anything I should do?"

"Oh, I think not. Just get your five a day, eat a proper meal, and get your maid to give you some cake and ice cream as an_ extra_ special treat. Maybe then your legs won't feel so sore, and maybe your chest won't be so flat either."

"But…" the poor girl looked scandalised, and she crossed her arms directly over her chest in defence. "I'm a cheerleader! I'm supposed to be light if my team are gonna throw me!"

"Well, that's just wonderful if all they're gonna do is throw you up and down like a beach ball, but cheerleaders are apparently athletes, and athletes need proper diets, right? Oh, and speaking of throwing…" he continued, not allowing her a second to interject, "with that cut in your throat, I'd avoid _purging _for a while if I was you – wouldn't want it to get infected." With that, he made to limp to the door, grabbing his cane and taking the potato chips with him.

"Hey! Those chips are mine!"

"Weren't you listening? You spilled your food, so I'm disposing of it for you!"

"No you're not, you're gonna eat them – and you spilled them, not me!"

"Geez, kid, there are kids starving in Third World countries, and you want me to waste food? You really are spoilt." Kids today... "You're not a _Carpenters _fan, are you?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

House didn't feel like dignifying that with an answer, so he asked, "You can let yourself out, right? Only the circus has come to town, and I'm a little late."

With that, he left the Examination Room, and the girl was left there, stunned absolutely speechless. In the end, she never did see Dr House again, largely because her parents had her switched to a new doctor the very next day.

* * *

**A/N. … Because Procrastination is an art that must be appreciated in all its glory. Meanwhile, all the horrible jokes are intentional towards the expression of House's character. If you understand any of the more obscure ones, you get a gold star. **

**Thanks,**

**Ruin Takada XXX**


	3. Trashed and Scattered

**Full Summary: The rewritten version of the original well-loved fic, this portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. One week is all that is allotted for him and his team to save Kira from the world and himself…and House's neck is on the line.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I own House, MD. I do not own music by Avenged Sevenfold, nor the band themselves. I own this plot and this writing, and a few characters, but they are my own, and you will know them when you see them. Finally, I do not make money from this story, but my web-provider does. **

* * *

Chapter III

Trashed and Scattered

The sight of utter mayhem was what greeted Dr House when he finally made it to the entrance hall known by employees as 'Main Check In'. He hadn't taken two broken steps in and already he was surrounded by it. Chairs were overturned. Staff and innocents alike were frantic and scattered, cowering or else trying to take control of a situation that was out of everyone's hands. Medical doohickies and pharmaceutical whatyamacallems littered the floor, staining and potentially endangering feet. A long, heavy note rang out throughout the room from a not-far-off room, ignored in favour of the chaos and its still-rampant source. Indeed, as Wilson had foretold, five people were injured. All of them – as House could not help but recall – were from the obedient elevator ride he had taken with Cuddy earlier that morning, blood seeping from new but thankfully minor wounds in logical places if one considered retracing the steps of the chaos (or so House believed). Two well-trained nurses were already attending to them as they sat close to the edges or else out of the way, while Dr Chase attempted to calm down a man in his late-forties and his wife, that group situated by the receptionist-desk-like Nurses' Station and an over-turned wheelchair. The couple were huddled together, arms around each other as they quivered in fear, seeking comfort in one another.

Standing on the side-lines, House spent the first few minutes at the scene in enraptured fascination, taking in every detail – never before had he seen the place in such discord, this considering he'd been here during a meningitis epidemic. Offhandedly thankful that he'd long-since gotten used to that 'hospital-smell' that unnerved so many people, he reopened the bag of potato chips and put one in his mouth, letting it rest on his tongue for a moment to allow the flavouring to seep in before he actually chewed. He'd never had consommé flavour before, and it made for a rather interesting experience as a viewing snack for such a spectacle as this.

There. Right there – there was the culprit, the madman… or was that mad _boy_? He was younger than he expected, a young, skinny man barely out of adolescence (if at all). Of what he could see, he was of East Asian descent, and his hair, chestnut brown, was reaching past his shoulders, the longest strands aiming towards his shoulder blades but still having a ways to go yet. It might have once had that 'deliberately tussled' style that was currently in vogue, but right now it was past that stage, sticking out manically as though worn and torn. His eyes, currently hooded in a dangerous expression, seemed to be brown like his hair. Yet, they held a luminous glow of deep red like an outward sign of psychotic rage, like a mocking clue for such as Dr House who needed no such things.

Of course, such an obvious sign as red eyes (who had ever heard of such a thing?) was an unnecessary tipoff, considering that there was a far more distinctive one in place. That is, in a room full of people and on mission to instantaneously spot the psycho among them for the good of the rest, what better tipoff could you have than, say, this one right here: A skinny young man with no outward indication of physical strength pinning a distinguished doctor twice his age, twice his width from the middle and several inches taller against the wall by the Pharmacy and more than three inches off the ground.

The doctor taken hostage, House quickly realised, was Foreman, a wound on the black man's temple glistening dark in the fluorescent lighting of the room and the Pharmacy sign, the rest of his face seeming to be drenched in a glaze of sweat. The young man taking his hostage, House realised, was, to put it simply, pissed. His teeth were bared in undisguised rancour as he muttered fiercely, as though his words were a deadly toxin that he had to spit out, had to have infect someone else – mad ravings. Quickly turning to the Nurse's Station, he instantly found what he was looking for, slipped the potato chips into his pocket and moved as silently as he could towards them.

"… I know the way you act towards your patients…" Here he paused, not just for breath, but as though his hate had to be held back just a moment longer. "All the lies you have told; all the manipulations; cheating; stealing; treating the world like _dust_ on your shoe…" He spoke with a distinct accent, slightly Japanese but mixed with something else. British? American? Canadian? It was a little hard to tell.

House smiled despite himself, despite the gravity of the situation: He knew that Foreman was a little bit too like the maverick for sanity's sake, and he'd called his employee out on it numerous times already, but he wasn't really _that_ bad, was he? At least, he didn't think so – Foreman still had a ways to go before he could be considered on par with the great Dr House's level of bastardry.

"Taking foolish, irresponsible risks without knowing," continued the young man, "without even caring about the consequences of your actions. People die under your care, and you are too stoned to even tell, are you not?

"It is such a blessing that Dr Foreman is a better doctor than you will ever be, you drug-abusing hack!"

_Wait, what?_

Suddenly, House was caught hard by the neck, unable to breathe as the force constricted on his windpipe: The maniac's left hand had struck out behind him, sightlessly finding the curmudgeon's throat, proceeding to squeeze every breath from him. He turned his head, deep red eyes found vivid blue ones. His mouth was pulled down into a cruel grimace, as though the sight of the older man made him so sick. No, it was more than a sickness, more like a heartless hatred. "Oh yes, Dr House. You are just _so famous_ that I have well heard of your crimes against humanity! You know that countless patients are waiting for their pain medication, right?"

"Is-is that so?" House gasped out. He made to clutch at the hand, a panic welling up inside him as it tightened with his exhalation. "I'll see what I can do."

"You would do well to," the grimace turned up more into a smirk, "because your existence is the very reason that the world is rotting like it is. I can only _dream _of the state it would be in without spineless,_ selfish_ filth like you!"

"I can only dream of the state this room would be in without _you_!" House choked out the remark, but just barely. That grip was still getting tighter, and his dread was in anticipation of the crushing.

"You are of a thriving breed, Dr House. Criminals of the world sully the innocents from without, attacking again and again at their defences," The tempo of his words was slower now, more purposeful, taking on a callous syncopation, "while the ignorant public services, negligent law enforcement, and abusive, drugged-up, second-rate doctors like yourself take advantage of the trust you are handed, working your evil from within, rotting the core until there is nothing left but a bitter taste in the mouth of society. Our innocents, our betters are slowly dying, disappearing, weakening the species: You are the very curse to the little cure we have left!"

"Is it a good time to mention I've been following your work?"

"Is it ever? That just makes you even worse: A filthy hypocrite!"

"And you think you can change that?" His grip tightened, and House was practically digging bitten nails into his captor's hand. His face was turning a dangerously purple colour, his very lungs crying out for air.

The young man's face suddenly morphed, his mouth pulled down into a sneer, the rest of his features opening up a floodgate of repulsion at the creature held by his left hand, this most disgusting mammal to ever crawl up from the ocean's depths. "Think?" he asked, "I know! I will _eradicate_ this filth, like bleach upon mould, like the Angel of Death upon Sodom and Gomorrah, like-"

"Like Kira on criminals?" House interrupted, creaking out a smile. The patient growled in response; actually growled, his eyes narrow, his teeth bared into a vicious snarl like he wanted nothing more than to tear out his throat. By the looks of those pearly whites, he definitely seemed capable of it, if given the opportunity.

Looking out to House's left, he yelled out to no one. "Kono hito o futari minasai, Ryuk!(1)" he burst out into a slow, peculiar laugh that started low, hitting at high notes on the end. "Kitanai mono wa sugu o shinu!(2)" The laugh came back louder, faster and harder now, almost a maddening yell as it reverberated across the expanse of the hall, silencing all, stilling all, making them cover their ears. Almost on instinct, every man, woman and child knew what was coming next, including House and Foreman. Including the maniac. Foreman let out a scream as the pair seemed to be lifted inches higher, the grip tightening on both of them. House began to feel the beginnings of a crushing sensation, a real one. His other hand shot to squeeze at the wrist. His vision was beginning to cloud. He dropped the cane; or at least, he heard the clatter.

The dark-haired East Asian girl from the elevator ride seemed to suddenly appear by the patient's side. Next to him, she seemed so much younger, her child-like eyes wide in a wild trademark of fear, tears welling up, a sharp wound at her hairline. Even in his plight, House couldn't help note a genetic resemblance – they weren't quite dead ringers, but it was there all the same. "Ani," she whispered, her voice shaking, broken, "Koroshinai de onegai!(3)" In an act of undeniable bravery, she placed her hands on his shoulders, grabbing his attention, "Satsujinsha janai! Hanzaisha janai! (4)"

Without warning, the grip left them, and the doctors fell like rag dolls to the floor, gasping for breath. With House's landing came a crunching sound from beneath him, and it made his stomach turn: The potato chips had been crushed, no doubt to crumbs inside the packet in his pocket. Swallowing air painfully, he scrambled for his cane as the young man put his hands as her shoulders now. He gripped them tight, his eyes wide as he began to shake her slowly. He seemed to be panicking. "Demo…" he muttered, barely audible. He paused as suddenly, he whole body seemed to seize up, "Kitanai mono wa mada ikiteiru!" He yelled, spitting out the words, shaking the girl harder and harder. "Mada ikiteiru!(5)"

The girl was struggling, trying to get out of the vice-like grip he had on her. No use: He was too strong, too forceful. A trail of blood was beginning to trail from her nose. Her eyes were rolling up into her head. She was losing consciousness.

If he didn't release her soon, she'd be at serious risk of death from whiplash.

An abrupt crack of wood against flesh. The pair were on the floor, unconnected. The middle-aged couple pushed past a stunned Chase to run up to them, not daring to touch either of them. At first, the kids didn't stir, but the girl's eyes were soon open, and she was soon staggering to her feet and into the arms of who must be her terrified parents. The young man, their eldest son (as House supposed), stayed exactly where he was. His eyes firmly shut, the madness wiped from his face, a bruise surrounding the bleeding result of blunt force trauma at his left temple.

The maniac, it seemed, was K.O-ed. Down for the count. Unconscious.

The man, his father, looked little more than outraged, and it was only as he looked around for the culprit that he found him: Dr Gregory House, his cane in hand, which he twirled; a syringe of clear serum in the other hand, full and ready for use; a smug grin plastered right across his wrinkling face. The man was aghast, seemingly between the act of smacking that smug grin right off the doctor and going to his son's aid. Obviously, the man was owed an explanation, whether he asked for it or not – Cuddy, for one, would not let go unheeded if she got wind of this.

His throat still feeling exceptionally sore after its uncalled-for abuse, House decidedly squared his shoulders and put what he knew he'd have to say in as few words as possible. "I did what I had to do," He grimaced then, the ache in his throat hitting him worse with use. "And it worked." Dropping the syringe to the floor, he took the packet of potato chips out of his suit jacket pocket, and gave it a cautionary shake. Satisfied with the sound it made, he hung his cane on the crook on his arm, stuck a hand in the bag, and pulled out a solitary, miraculously whole and undamaged chip. Putting it in his mouth, he was beginning to understand why the two-dimensional cheerleader was carrying them: The salty, meaty taste alone was soothing to him in this troubled time, nearly as good as his Vicodine (only then, did he later register, was he aware of the pain in his leg. He supposed it was something to do with the strangulation and that he'd been 'given something else to cry about'). "Consommé flavour…" he muttered to no one in particular.

Composing himself, he caught the eye of one of the nurses, pointed to the lifeless patient, and mouthed the words 'Sort him out'. It worked. Two spare nurses were soon rushing to the boy, 'sorting him out' as House began to limp away from the scene, crunching the chips yet more as he stuffed them back in his pocket for later. Foreman, he remembered, had not said a thing, but was still knelt on the floor, massaging his throat and learning to breathe. With Chase helping the rest of the staff sort out some of the mess, and Cameron anywhere but there as far as he or anyone else knew, he decided that he would leave it a few more minutes before he collared them for work via his pager. This had, after all, been a rather traumatic experience.

On his way to anywhere but the Walk-In Clinic (he'd decided on the spot that his hours could be made up another time), he was the last to notice that he was being followed, the man in the pink Nike cap shadowing him in silence.

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**(1)"Look at these men, Ryuk! (2)This filth will die soon."**

"**Big brother, please don't kill them!(3) You're not a killer! You're not a criminal!(4)"**

"**But… the filth is still alive! It's still alive!(5)" **

**A/N. I made efforts to make absolutely sure that the translation was correct. Compared to the last attempt, the language here is far more informal, which is right considering that they are brother and sister, and is devoid of unnecessary references to subjects that are already clear in context. If you know Japanese, then you'll know what I mean. **

**There was very nearly a Bond (007) joke in here. I might put it in an omake one day. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoyed it. **

**Please R&R, they make me so happy.**

**Thanks,**

**Ruin Takada XXX**


	4. Chapter IV

**A/N: Hello, and welcome back after the lengthy postpone. It was only thanks to a visit to the local PC World that I managed to get this back and finish it, although, thanks to a few questioning stares at my outfit, it longer a little longer than expected (if there are some things that shouldn't be worn in hot weather, then jeans and boots are definitely some of them (and suppose the skirt meant nothing, then?)) **

**Well, now that this is done, I a**m** now free to think further on the changes, which **m**ay be drastic. **

**So, please Read, review and enjoy after this long wait.**

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Chapter IV

The world anyone him swirled pitch-black, flashes of vibrant colours occasionally swimming through his peripheral vision. Like sharp katanas, their ripples of coloured light sliced through his mind's eye, showing images of human corruption and suffering through the slit-like wounds, clear light shimmering along the edges. It wouldn't let him turn away; never let him forget the reasons the he could never give up, the reasons he carried on with this futile crusade. He had to be, no, he _was_ Kira, and couldn't be anyone else: Not the Successful Student to his teachers; the Insightful Amateur Detective to the NPA; not even the Perfect, Golden Son to his parents.

That charade had broken down many moons ago, each mask having slipped away, but not before it had the chance to dupe everyone he met. Had he not been such a good actor, so good at manipulating his peers and lying to feed and polish each of his many facades, the blow generated by the seemingly sudden onset of his illness would have been much less, and much easier to take, and his parents would have understood. They would have been able to see the dead look in his eyes caused by his downward spiral, no longer masked by that emptiness that had always lingered for as far as his parents could remember. They knew no different. There was nothing to compare it to.

But because he was such a good actor, and because he could hide such inner turmoil so well, they'd burst into tears from the shock, never knowing, never for once believing that their perfect, beautiful, intelligent son had the capability – no, the mental corruption – to commit such a deed, make such threats, and instil such fear into anyone, never mind greater men, and make them fear for their lives.

_For them…Mom…Dad…Sayu…it must've been like a kick in the teeth…_he could feel the thought cross across his conscious, _for all of 17 years they never really knew the real me…and the minute they do, they lose complete faith…just like I have. _

With a slow and mournful speed, Light awoke from the compulsory slumber, a sharp pain at his right temple jolting alive as he frowned away the tiredness that still shrouded his mind. That tiredness at always seemed to be there, but now he could feel it more than ever, the memories and visions of his slumber slipping into the background like water through roots, allowing him to forget until the time when he'd next fall victim to sleep – that is, _if_ he did.

_What happened? Why does my head hurt? I was in that wheelchair until a moment ago_, _right? Did I just fall out of it, like at the last institution?_

The lesion on his face itched wickedly after a near hour of being ignored, now intent on punishing the teen for sleeping through the worst of the pain, and so Light made to lift a hand to scratch it – a foolish practise, he knew, considering the good it would do him – yet he couldn't: It was stuck in place, as though strapped into position, on the opposite flank. Looking down, Light sighed and shook his head in annoyance. "Should have known." He wheezed, finally using his voice properly after what felt like centuries of abusive conduct on his part, "I must've really done something bad this time to deserve this…or maybe they've just accounted for the behaviour at the last institution?"

Light was fastened into a white strait jacket, each arm strapped to its opposing side via long sleeves connected to a brown belt and buckle that encircled the waist. Apart from that, there were the same belts and buckles around the neck, chest, and hips, holding him in tight as all medieval contraptions are designed to do. He tried to sit up properly, but his ankles were tied to the white bars on either side of the bed, the ropes digging into and irritating the flesh in their tightness, making the job admittedly difficult. It was obvious now that the magnitude of whatever he'd done must have been so great that they didn't want him moving freely – or at all, really.

_**What are ya gonna do now, Light? **_At this, Light looked over to his left, to see Ryuk hovering there, a black-rimmed grin on his face reminiscent of DC's Joker. _**They've got ya tied up like a rabbit, as always, but the glass thing is new: are you gonna sit quietly since you know you'll be spotted, or are you foolish enough to actually break out?**_

Looking around, he realized that he was in a separate hospital room, surrounded by two plain magnolia coloured walls. The other two were the wall containing a huge inside window of clear glass and a sliding door (also made of glass) which was situated to his right, with the outside windowed wall opposite that. _Of course, they must not want to take chances with me. _All the standard hospital room furnishings were present, including a bedside table with drawers on the left side of the bed, and two comfortable looking chairs beside it on the right of the bed. The chairs mismatched, looking as though they'd been stolen from two different living room sets. A travel bag sat on the nearest one, no doubt full to the brim with Light's clothes, toiletries, and a number of books he'd collected on his travels from hospital to hospital, and nation to States (in both English and Japanese). Two plastic cups of tea sat on the bedside table in front of a basket of fruit, the contents still steaming profusely: Evidently, his parents and Sayu had only been gone for a few minutes at the most, believing him safely knocked out enough that a few minutes away wouldn't do him any harm.

"No," Light replied finally, giving Ryuk one of his million-dollar yen smiles, "I'll escape: I've got to live up to this country's expectation of me, you know. Besides, Mom and Dad like taking their sweet time at times like this."

With that, he bent his back over, letting his head touch the mattress between his legs, and began to shiver inside the jacket. Thankfully, Light had lost a little weight since the last time he was wearing one of these, and his parents had presumably made sure he was given the same size jacket.

Ever since Light was first made to wear straitjacket back in June when he'd had his first 'episode' (as it had once been called) and strangled the Invigilator, Light had been allowed the last 6 months in which to learn how to get out of these things, as he was always required to wear one at some point or other at every hospital – as his condition was largely undiagnosed, and Light's treatment of the staff was always threatening at best, they just didn't know what else to do with him, as Soichiro and Sachiko wouldn't allow anything more severe than that.

Now, 6 months on and 52 straitjackets later, Light skill in the art of escapism was almost on level with the Great Houdini himself, having always found a way out of each straitjacket placed on him, and so it had barely been five minutes when Light was out of the jacket and undoing the knots around his ankles.

Once free, he stepped lightly off the bed and began changing out of the standard lime-green hospital-grade gown, replacing it instead with a pair of beige-y coloured trousers and black and white, slipping his house slippers over his bare feet. Once satisfied with his appearance, he began rummaging through the bag again, taking out an A5 sized sunshine yellow notepad with the Floridian Seal on the front and a HB pencil. Both of these had been brought while Light was at a mental hospital in Florida, where he was treated by a neurologist who had a penchant for molesting his patients, the knowledge of which had affected Light so greatly that he couldn't physically speak until he'd been transferred somewhere else in an entirely different state.

In fact, that had been the only hospital where Light hadn't worn a straitjacket: As well as being unable to speak, he couldn't even bring himself to touch any of the staff – or even his family – for fear of negative repercussions involving that ill-minded doctor.

Opening the notebook up on to a clear page on the bedside table, he quickly wrote down two notes in his small, elegant lettering: One in Japanese for his family, and the second in English for any nosy hospital staff. Satisfied with the current situation, Light opened the sliding glass door, and walked out of the room, hands in pocket, and a small plastic smile on his face: As far as the strangers around him were concerned, he was a pleasant stranger enjoying his stay, using a mask that could only be described as the epitome of Serenity.

Looking over his shoulder at the lone Shinigami, and hovering in the doorway, Light gave him a little wink, saying, "Stay right there, Ryuk: It'll be strange if I'm walking around talking to you. Unlike with you, others can hear me speak."

_**Suit yourself, Light. See if I care. **_Ryuk then proceeded to take an apple from the fruit basket, stuffing it inside his mouth and chewing it down in one gulp. Swiftly looking right to left in a paranoid manner, he then dived for the travel bag, opening up a separate compartment and proceeding to stuff his face of the apples that lay there, no longer forgotten.

_That's my Shinigami. _

And, continuing to walk out, Light didn't look back, only stopping momentarily to allow the passage of a full white body bag on a gurney being led away by four men in their scrubs and masks, no doubt to be wheeled out the way it first came in. Then, once it had passed safely away, no one did or said anything as he climbed into an empty lift, a small laugh of his echoing around the small space as the lift doors closed.

Of course, had anyone had the ability to see into one's past, or even future as he could… had they even half of the wits that they were born with… they would've put a hand in the doors before they slammed shut, and carried that young, ill, _dangerous_ man away to the safety of a padded room, where he wouldn't be able to even hurt himself.

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_Squeak…Squeak…Squeak…_

The back left wheel of the trolley squeaked over and over with each revolution, the surgical equipment on the tray held by it rattling gently with metallic tinks. The lone surgeon wheeling the equipment down to theatre, still dressed in his lab coat, sighed for the hundredth time that day, thinking for yet the hundredth time about quitting his job, hauling up sticks, and moving back to Alabama.

He wasn't really a surgeon, only an optometrist with a minor in Paranormal studies. However, with some surgical training under his belt, everyone insisted on giving him the scrubs and scalpel whenever some lazy no-good surgeon decided not to turn in for theatre on time. Today, that lazy no-good surgeon was Dr Chase, who was apparently tied up with a mental patient on the third floor.

Young people these days. Can't do with them, can't do without them.

So once again, he was thrust into the path of a poor no-good-'un's destiny, which he would no doubt foul up – in the last 99 surgeries he'd performed, the patient's life had been risked every time, and very nearly lost if it hadn't been for Dr Chase on every one of those occasions. Now that Dr Chase wasn't here, there were only handful of words to describe the situation of the poor patient, and none of them repeatable before the watershed – well, not unless they were bleeped out.

Walking down the corridor alone, with nothing but the squeak of a wheel for company, and the promise of misfortune of tragic proportions later, the surgeon sighed once again. If he was sacked from surgical practice after this, he'd probably jump for joy and move back to the ophthalmology department where he belonged.

_Tap_

Suddenly, he stopped, looking behind him. Did he just hear a footstep coming from behind him? Maybe it was just the isolation and relative silence getting to him, but whatever it was, it was making him paranoid, making him check the shadows for strangers.

"Hello?" he asked the shadows, "Is anyone there?" When nothing answered, he turned back around, and continued on his journey.

Barely seconds later, there was a squeak – and it was nothing to do with the trolley. No, it sounded like the squeak of footwear, like sneakers. Surely there was someone there?

He turned around again, this time slower, trying not to make any sudden movements. Once again, there was nothing, nothing but a darkened corridor with eerie shadows and a light bulb that needed fixing. Turning back around, he'd thought he could see something odd in his peripheral vision, something red. However, it hadn't troubled him yet – so if it wished to, he decided, it would've done it on the first turn – so he ignored the anomaly, and continued the journey. In any other situation, he would've turned back to study it, but as this was some kid's demise he was walking towards, it was probably best to hurry and get the damned flat line over with.

Getting another dose of his daily outtake of air, he went back to pushing the trolley, and began to whistle a tune to take out a factor of his fear. The tune was decidedly jolly, but only because he wished it so.

The sounds of whistling bounced off the walls, taking away all silence and white noise. Now selectively deaf to everything else, he never noticed the footsteps – once in time with his own – that quickened towards him, and the whistling of wind that represented an awful force with its own hammer.

But it didn't have a hammer – no, but it did have opposable thumbs, which are just as dangerous.

The force rushed into him from behind, grabbing hold of the tails of his lab coat, and thrusting the material back on itself, and over the surgeon's head, pushing him to the floor with a thud. The trolley rolled away, he could hear, but was quickly stopped and ransacked, if the metallic tinks were anything to go by.

On his hands and knees, he slowly looked up from beneath the coat ends, staring in horror at the silhouette of the creature that scampered away, just one piece of equipment in hand as he laughed, red eyes glowing keenly at the pathetic fat sap that had fallen so easily from over his shoulder.

The surgeon sighed once more when he saw what the tool was: Thanks to the shape of the blade, he could recognise it as being the favoured scalpel of the surgical team, the apparent 'Good Luck Chuck' of the whole set of surgical incisors. According to some trainee surgeons, it was thanks to the use of that particular scalpel that this surgeon hadn't yet killed a patient.

If that was indeed true – and only a poor surgeon like he would think so – then the poor boy was indeed destined for the Great Above. If he proceeded with the surgery now, then that would be asking for trouble, especially as he was already 10 minutes late for the darn thing.

Dr Morning may as well call to postpone it, until the skies were looking brighter, and not so much like death was on the horizon.

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**And that was the much awaited chapter over and done with. And, I must say that it took a little out of me, to say the least. But, I'll try to keep on top of it, now that I've continued again. Hopefully, no one is disappointed with the turn-out – though if you are, I'd totally understand, and you are more than welcome to review it. **

**So, the story will continue next chapter, with the arrival of L as you know (or, at least do know if you've read the first version of this Death god-forsaken fic). I've also been advised to take another good look at House's personality versus L's, so expect some better quality. If I take too long, feel free to take a look at how it first unfolded in the original version, if you've not read it, and review this, if you feel the need to.**

**Edit (29/09/11): Because I'm a stupid person who didn't think to do full research, I've have to change Dr Morning from an ophthalmologist to an optometrist. I also had to explain why a doctor could think to give an eye doctor a scalpel. **

**I suppose that all there's left to say is: Thank you for sticking with me this long, please R&R, and see you next time!**

**Thanks again,**

**Ruin Takada.**


	5. MIA

**Hello, Ruin Takada back again. Gawd, it's been a long time since this has been updated, and an equally long time to write. The problem with this chapter, of course, has been how to make it go, considering my desire to change this for the better, when compared to the original version. Hopefully, this will suffice for a good chapter, and if you have anything to say about it, you know what to do. **

**In case you haven't already heard, there is a poll on my profile, in which you can vote for the project I take up next after this story has been completed. The general results are up so far, and they are altered whenever a notable change has been made, and there are summaries of each proposed project up on the profile too, in its own section. So, if there is one that you particularly want to do, don't be affected by the results, and just vote for your two favourite (that's the max, of course). **

**Thanks for waiting, and please R&R!**

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Chapter V

M.I.A

"Doctor Gregory House! What the hell were you thinking?" The man on the receiving end was stood in front of the desk, listening but not taking it in, instead entertaining himself by looking at the barely credible medical degrees – the irony of her running an 'out-of-practise' Practice was too good to pass up.

Suddenly realising that her question was in no way rhetorical, he snapped his head back to face the woman, letting out a hiss when his already sore neck whined and yelled at him for using it so soon after its traumatic brush with death.

"House?" she asked, bringing his attention back to her question.

"Oh?" he replied, "I don't know… maybe… 'This guy's got my neck?' or… 'What do you know, my feet are dangling off the ground, and it's not like they've never done _that_ before!'"

"And to think that you once had sense…" Dr Cuddy sighed, running a hand through her hair, rolling her eyes at the diagnostician, "Listen, once someone is admitted into hospital by the receptionist, they are our patient!"

"Well, sorry but Dora the receptionist hasn't been doing much of 'admitting' people in, lately. In fact, she should be fired for not doing her jo-"

"We're not here to talk about Dora, now are we? Rest assured, she'll get _her_ comeuppance, but right now, _you're_ in trouble for _your_ misconduct!"

"Oh come on! A crazy guy holds innocent people hostage, kills a couple of them, and you don't expect me to act?"

"I at least expect you to be sensible in a crisis and act properly! If you've got a sedative to administer, then administer that!"

"But why do that when a swift conk to the head would be so much quicker? If I'd administered the drug, I'd be starved enough of oxygen to cause severe brain damage, if not death!"

Cuddy didn't answer straight away, instead resting her full weight on her hands, which laid flat on the desk. Sighing again, she looked back up at him, "Fine, I'll give you that, but you were still irresponsible. That patient may already be mentally disturbed, if his file is anything to go by, but I doubt that the dose of head trauma would've helped him any. However, you're on a warning now, and if you do anything to physically assault another patient again, you'll be doing a month of clinic duty, and you can forget about getting any cases until the end of that month." Lifting a hand, she started to wave him away, before stopping, holding up a finger.

"Oh, and don't think I've forgotten about the missing shipment. If what Dr Wilson says is true about the kid, then you've got no excuse."

"Fine…" House turned to limp out the door, somewhat thankful inside that she didn't take his cane there and then, or even his Vicodine. The latter would've been a lot worse – exceedingly painful for him, for one thing.

Exiting his boss's office, he found Doctor Chase waiting at the door for him, his arms folded and an exasperated look on his face, which changed into a smirk when he spotted House. "So," he said, walking up to him, "I see she's not confiscated the cane for that little incident."

"Aww," House cooed mockingly, "and you came all this way just for little old me? You wanted to help little old me cross the road cane-less purely out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Pfft! Of course not! Foreman and I had a bet riding on this and I just wanted to see if I'd get my 50 bucks! Oh, and by the way, I need a loan for $50."

House smiled, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, "Heh, 30 years on and he's still robbing old men blind."

Laughing quietly at the cheap wise-crack, they began their walk back to House's office. It wasn't a long walk, but it was certainly a slow one, considering the cripple's sloping gait and wooden third leg – not good combinations.

As they proceeded slowly, looking to the outside world like a junior doctor escorting an elderly patient back his room, they couldn't help but look over the barrister down to the first floor Nurse's Station, where the chaos had descended only an hour ago: After a cleaning job that had taken half an hour to finish (that being with House helping out, of course), and a half an hour rant from the Queen of the Single and Desperate, that still left an hour before the appointed time to meet this local detective.

That wouldn't be difficult. Just a chat with a contemptuous nut-job in a hat and trench coat, with all the tobacco-smoking trimmings wrapped in the stench of the perpetually unfed. Nothing to it. Besides, with his medical degree and the (for all intense and purpose) unemployed guy working on fanciful hopes, he'd be able to ring circles around him with ease.

Hell, it might even be fun to take it easy after an exhausting brush with death.

"Hello, would you happen to be that doctor?" House turned around at the voice, to find himself face to face with the pink-capped one, this time rid of the excitable little morsel of a girl that was with him during the attack of her evil brother. The cap still pulled playfully over his face; it was hard to read his expressions.

"Oh," House asked, playing along, "and what do you mean by 'that doctor'? Can you even be sure that I'm even a doctor at all?"

"Oh, I think I can. You don't dress in a lab coat, because you don't want to be approached or identified, yet you walk around here with an air of authority, like you own this hospital. Also, earlier, at the scene of the incident, you were targeted by a patient for your mistreatment of patients, and for the taking of pain medication from other patients, which you seem to take with less than fifteen minutes between each dose – half an hour when the pain – or rather, addiction – doesn't seem to be affecting you. Although, the fact that you were tending to the people injured, including myself, was a give-away in and of itself: People tend to be interested in only helping themselves, the only exception being those trained to do so. Am I correct?"

House scowled at the explanation, and more so at the young man. He hated perceptive like him – they were much harder to hit, for one.

"And who are you, exactly? You come up to people unannounced and tell them their life stories like you do it all the time, yet with that cap, I bet you're hiding something, too." With that, he took hold of the cap, pulling it off to reveal a mess of black hair and a comical plastic mask covering his face, of a man with black hair almost like dreadlocks, huge eyes with equally large bags underlining them, accompanied with an impish nose and mouth. It made him look like a disturbed looking puppet's head had replaced his own.

"Of course I am," he replied, "but I didn't come here unannounced." He quickly handed over a business card with a delicate grip, placing it in the cap in House's hand. Chase fished it out of the cap, reading it with the look of someone who didn't believe it, and didn't want to either. "Rue Ryuzaki, Unprivate Detective?"

"I've always found that the title 'Private' Detective sounds so egotistical."

_But just calling yourself an Unprivate Detective makes you sound egotistical anyway. _House really wanted to tell the Detective that there and then, but decided against it: He could have more fun that way. It wouldn't be the easy ride that he'd hoped for, but it was certainly something to do until the next case. He'd already had Cameron last time, after all.

"What're you here for? How do you know so much?" Chase demanded, at once apprehensive of the P.I.

"According to Dr Cuddy and the Medical Board, the last shipment of Vicodine to this hospital went missing last month, and I've been hired to find out why. However, if your history of addiction and the testimonial of your patients are anything to go by, then it's undeniably your doing. Besides, another case here has come up just this morning, and I wish to help you solve it."

"That still doesn't answer my question…" Chase muttered, allowing himself to be brushed aside by his over-zealous boss.

"Oh really?" House asked, rising to the challenge as always, "And you think that you can solve it before me, whatever it is?"

"Of course not," Ryuzaki answered, "but I'm sure I can help, even with my layman knowledge of diagnostic medicine."

"Fine, you can help, but you should be warned, in the event that you annoy and/or double-cross me, you'll find yourself on the receiving end of a cane-shaped object to the cranial region. Got that?"

"Of course. Now if you don't mind me saying, where may we find your office?"

Allowing the Unprivate Detective to tag along with him and Chase, he limped back to where he'd started that morning, feeling not only as though he'd been going in a circle the whole time, but at the same time disgusted at himself for allowing himself to be followed by such Babe-Repellents in the first place. Never mind: A quick call to his usual company of choice (the aptly named 'Nightly Dame'), and the new case would solve that soon enough.

And… if it didn't?

Well, then there aren't enough opiates and XXX tapes in the world to solve_ that _eventuality.

Opening the glass door into his office, his small entourage of losers following behind, he entered, finding Cameron sitting at the head of the table by the wipe board and filing her nails, a blue folder acting as a receiver for the resulting keratin dust, and Foreman in his usual seat nearest to the door, shuffling a desk of cards absent-mindedly with deft fingers. Chase soon joined the neurologist, handing him over the $50 and gesturing to be dealt a hand of cards.

Limping over to Cameron, he stood over her, watching half-amused as she carried on filing, only looking up when the shadow over her stayed put. Doing a double take, she put down the small metal instrument, picked up the folder, knocked it on the table surface twice on its narrow side before handing it to the 'real' doctor. "Cuddy's orders," she said, "You hit him on the head, so you may as well treat that and whatever else lurks on the A, B and G waves in there. Her words, not mine."

He took it in his hand, but didn't budge, Cameron offering a nervous smile to communicate that, as she'd done her job, she shouldn't be glared at like she was then and there. Only when House lifted the cane as a warning gesture did the meaning get across, and she jumped out of the seat, sitting herself instead in the next chair on the other side of the wipe board.

"So," asked Foreman, "does this mean you've been given another weekly dose of fun?"

"Oh, did the blue folder give that away? Or did no one tell you that playtime ended fifteen years ago?" He glared at the Neurologist's deck of cards, leaning over the table to look at his hand, only stopped when they were then held protectively to their owner's chest. "Chase, you should fold right now."

"Why? The game's almost over anyway, and I've almost got my money back."

"I was talking about your lab coat: The blood and coffee down the front may look really cool in an 'I work at the Outback Steakhouse' kind of way, but over here, that actually scares patients." Looking at his reflection set in the glass wall, Chase buttoned up the coat, hiding away the remnants of the recent attack, making mental notes to not only to change the shirt, but also to never take a coffee break at the Nurses Station. Or let Dora the receptionist near anyone. Again.

"So, the Ripper has a file?" House asked, glancing at the contents of the file for a second before handing it to Foreman, who'd finished putting away his cards.

"And, and a name, too. If the file is correct – and it should be if it was faxed over and not filled in by Dora – his name is Light Yagami, and he's a 17 year old male from Japan. If the file's right, then he's been passed along from one hospital to another for the last 5 or 6 months, spending no more than a week at each, and moving onto US institutions more than four months ago. The reason for why he's not yet been cured in all that time must a mystery on its own."

"No it isn't," supplied Foreman, snatching the file out of the Surgeon's grip, "the only reason that no one's been able to properly treat him yet is because he's not let any of them get close enough to do any tests. And, even if they did, he's never stayed still enough or calm enough to let them, so he's ended up spending half the time in a strait jacket, just like what the nurses have gone and put him in.

"And you got all that from what happened half an hour ago?" Chase snapped back.

"Of course not: It says so right here in the additional notes, where you should've looked." The two diagnosticians glared hard at each other. It had been a very long time since the two of them had fought, and they were long overdue for a testerone-fueled scuffle that no among of late-night Poker and beer could combat.

"Please," plead Cameron, "if we could just get back to the matter at hand! I know everyone's nerves are a little frayed from the incident earlier, but-"

"She's right, you know." Called out a voice from the other side of the room, in a tone that suggested resentment in both a lack of a display of competence and being downright ignored and upstaged by the Australian surgeon who had come in before him. "If we cannot focus on such a case as this, and if we cannot do it together, then we are nothing before the sight of the Federation of State Medical Boards." With his pink Nike cap mischievously pulled to the side, and the wide-eyed doll's face mask still firmly in place over his real face, he looked more like the teasing Joker than the Ace of the pack, like he'd much rather impart with real mischief than any form of wisdom. This view could only be heightened by the way he sat bare-footed in an unused chair in a corner: Crouched, like a bird of prey nearly on the edge, with his legs folded up in the manner of a frog at the water's edge, practically hanging on literally by the skin of his feet.

He was more like a lowly animal than any form of human being, much less one that implicated a wish to help them deal with their prized basket case.

House would've loved to begin testing him for generalized dystonia right then and there, just to confirm the reason for such a bad posture, but he couldn't – the Unprivate Detective wasn't even a patient here, so no one would want to waste the equipment on him for a hunch like that. Besides, Cuddy would probably take away his cane just for that.

"Now," he continued, making a loud squeak on the plastic surface of the chair with the mere flexing of his toes, "if you dare to stumble through this case in such a manner, and hope to treat our unruly patient showing this same level of incompetence, then I demand that I accompany the team in the diagnosing of Light Yagami. Nevertheless, if all is as it appears to be, then it is most possibly my fault that we very nearly lost him and many others today, and so it is my duty that I help solve this case along with you."

Nay, a creature that now _explicates_ the wish to help deal with their prized basket case. What a day this was turning out to be for diagnostic medicine and Evolution alike, as even Neo-Humans ask to practice medicine without even giving in a CV and two weeks notice.

"Fine," answered House, glaring at him from beneath hooded brows, "go ahead. I'm sure your education in medicine and psychology was _much _more enriched than mine and the team's." His voice dripped with sarcasm, which the Unprivate Detective conveniently forgot.

"But of course, although I am just a Jack of many trades and disciplines, I have conducted my own research into many subjects, including Psychology. Attempting to understand the mind of the clinically insane is all part of my job, especially through disciplines such as Criminology and clinical Psychology.

"Besides," he added, moving his head slightly with an involuntary jerk, "if I cannot be present to help solve your case, I must be here, so as to solve the _mysterious_ case of the _missing Vicodine shipment_."

"Wait," Foreman said, shuffling away his and Chase's cards, having won back the $50 dollars that was rightfully his and then some, "so everything that Cuddy and Light Yagami said about the missing pain medication, that wasn't a lie? They weren't kidding? It wasn't – dare I say it – the stupid excuse of a sorry excuse for a fan fiction writer, so that he-slash-she had a narrative vehicle with which to give this senseless story what little sense that could be had?"

"So it wasn't a hallucination." Muttered Chase, his less than jovial mood barely disguised by a whisper.

"Oh, there _are_ hallucinations," replied Cameron, "they're just not any of ours. Hallucinations, or perhaps more accurately, psychosis, is a symptom of a manic episode, symptoms which include delusions of grandeur, over-explanation caused by an internal pressure to do so, hyper-activity, hyper-religiosity, belligerence, and a decreased need for sleep. If combined with depression, as in a mixed episode, this would cause disastrous consequences.

"Consequences like what?"

"Well, as a manic person may find themselves with racing thoughts and heightened energy levels, combined with their depression… you can probably figure out the rest."

"Still," said Foreman, "mania can be caused by a B12 deficiency-"

"Which can be fixed up which a good healthy diet featuring meat, poultry, eggs, dairy products, and _fish_ – which can all be found in the typical Japanese man's diet, or did you not watch anime as a kid like the rest of us?" House answered back, almost smiling at the fact that, once again, he was here to steer the team out of a bloody end.

"Of course," the Detective said, "if he is as seriously affected as his file suggests, and considering time as a factor, then had it been a deficiency, he would've been fixed up with Japanese home cooking, had that been what he'd been missing. No, but considering the closeness between him and his family, that won't be the case. A B12 deficiency is not only illogical, but it also doesn't explain any of his other symptoms."

Or, maybe not. Did he not hear correctly, or was that the sound of him being defleeced of his flock?

"So, so far we have a manic patient, who may or may not be a manic depressive." Said Chase.

"Indeed, and with a hatred of Mankind that has caused him to believe he himself is Kira, the latter is probably the case, in which case we will need to keep him supervised when he is not in a straitjacket – keeping him in one would be a less than ideal solution, and may breed mistrust." Brilliant – the damned Detective can even play the Humanitarian card, which will-

"Yes, of course. Keeping him restrained is all the other doctors ever did. Proving that we can allow him freedom of movement will prove that we're different, that we must know what we're doing. As long as he is watched at all times and kept in his room, then there won't be any danger to civilians!"

…rope in Cameron. How cunning, how lowbrow, how… insightful.

"And in the case that he does cause harm to others? What will we do then?" asked Foreman. Ah, yes – as the doctor who possessed House's qualities in an unpolished form, he'd stay at his side, right?

"We will offer full compensation, and then presently move Light Yagami to a padded room. Although he'll remain unrestrained for the most part, there will be a jacket on hand if extreme psychosis sets in, and he becomes more than a danger to others." The Detective answered, with the air of a man who had everything under perfect control.

"That seems a fair compromise. Although he'll come to trust us, it'll also make him realise that not only do we have the control, that causing those instances in the first place will only work out badly for him." That's it; Foreman was in full support, and was probably naming the Detective as the new favourite right now.

Suddenly, the Detective held up a pale finger, shaking it at him, "That is where you are wrong. He is an ill patient, not a dog." The Detective scolded, "He can understand English, you realise, and were it possible to train him to not commit his harmful misdeeds, then it would become so much harder for us to diagnose him."

"So… we communicate with him in words if he's in his right mind at the time, and let him know exactly what we're doing?"

"Yes, that would be the best policy, as it should be with all our patients. If we must use a straitjacket, then I suppose hackneyed phrases such as 'It's for your own good' and 'We can't have you harming innocents' will prove effective if nothing else is."

"Yes of course." But if Foreman was anything like House, it was in that he liked being challenged, knowing where he'd gone wrong and learning from the mistake – in a medical sense of course. And if Foreman had gone over to the dark side, that means that, if the Australian patsy was anything to go by, then Chase would some follow along suit and start sucking up… right about…

"Excellent suggestion, Mr…er…"

"Ryuzaki will do, Dr Chase, and no title will be required here, thank you."

"Right. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes, that would be appreciated. I wouldn't like any milk or cream, but I would like the sugar bowl, if you have one." Chase instantly jumped up to prepare the drink, even going as far as to filter the coffee, and – in his haste – pour in so much sugar that the spoon was soon standing independently erect in the cup.

There we go. Chase was lost, probably for the rest of the case, but at least he was comfortable enough that he wouldn't walk off with Ryuzaki at the end of it all. We hope.

The cup was set on the table in front of the Ryuzaki, who hitched up the mask just enough to show his mouth and take a sip, which he did with a little smile on his face. That irritating sugar junkie…

How could this have happened? The man hadn't been here for a full turn of an hour, and yet House's team had been stolen away from him, and all too quickly, to – as though the crew had been on the brink of mutiny before anyone had interfered.

"Yes," continued Ryuzaki, setting down his cup, "if we continue to work together in this manner, then we can expect to do the impossible and solve this case. However, as the earlier incident proved, you must be willing to treat him not only as a deserving patient, but also as Kira – or at least a New Kira. By this, I do not mean that you should spit on his name and refuse him certain treatment, but that you should always remain wary and on guard at all times. Having conducted prior research on this person beforehand, I can tell you that, in his usual state of mind, he is not nearly so violent and forward. No, he has all the cunning of a fox and plenty besides, and enough charm to fool anyone. He may try to persuade you to help him or let him free, or even trick you into certain acts-"

"How do you know all this?" interjected Cameron in moral outrage.

"He has a history of doing this to doctors. It's part of the reason that he couldn't be treated before. It's all in the notes. Now, as I was saying, you must be wary at all times. You must listen to everything he says, for any clues that may help later, but you must not trust what he says, not unless you have every reason to do so. In fact," at this point, the Detective reached into his pocket and pulled out three miniscule devices, laying them flat out on his palm.

"You should each wear one of these." He continued, "These are bugs, which can pick up a high amount of sound, which can then be played back on a laptop or computer at a very high quality. If you wear these on your lab coats in indistinguishable places, Light Yagami's speech can be played and recorded on a computer, files which can then be used as evidence in your case. As a Psychiatrist, or maybe even a Neurologist will know, a change in speech pattern, or even in tone could detect something amiss, and in a the midst of a manic episode, he will most certainly leave clues as to why he is as he is, or even how you can help him. What he says may even hold evidence to him not only giving clues, but also covering them up." Taking them from him, Cameron, Chase, and Foreman each pinned a bug onto their persons, taking care not to allow them to show.

Like a school boy, House stuck his hand up for attention, which he was given with a nod of Ryuzaki's head, "Don't I get one? I am the head of this department, you know. This is my case."

"Yes," the Detective answered, pulling his mask down again, "but as we all know, you tend not to visit patients unless you have an extra special medical interest, or it cannot be avoided. Although he may be of interest to you, after the incident in which he nearly killed you, it would be logical for you to want to display you anger and discontent over his treatment of you, and you may cause him unnecessary harm. What is more, were you to visit the patient, you will be flanked by at least one other team member, who will have a bug, and will keep you out of trouble, especially as we will, from now on, be keeping one of the three with the patient during every one of his waking hours. If one of you wishes to take over the first shift, now would be the time to say."

No one moved, except to turn and look over to Cameron, who sighed and stood up. She really should have expected it, considering her superior bedside manner, and the fact that, out of everyone present, she was the only one who wasn't present at the time of the incident, the only one whose life hadn't been threatened. The fact that she hadn't met him yet and hadn't been threatened probably made her a bad choice, but, as far as the men knew, you could only trust the pure-heart of a woman to overturn the violence.

"I'll take the first shift." she said, turning to leave. However, before she could leave the room, Ryuzaki signalled to her, making her turn back.

"Listen to me," he said, although there really was no need, "this is potentially Kira that we're dealing with. Give him every chance, and he will successfully do to you what he attempted to do to Dr House. When you come back, we'll have some symptoms on the board, and the surveillance tape of the incident ready for reviewing."

"Right," she answered back, "I have my pager, so tell me when you need me back." With that, she left the office, making her way down to the Nurses' Station, where she'd find the room number for her unlucky patient.

House sighed once she'd left, smiling and standing up, "So, men, are we ready to work, or do I need to bring back Naked Wednesdays to motivate you, now that the woman has gone." The others, including Ryuzaki, just glared at him in response, pinning him down at once for his inappropriateness.

"Didn't you hear what Ryuzaki just said," asked Foreman gruffly, "or do we need to remind you that the Federation of State Medical Boards will already be on our ass for this, if they ever hear about it."

"And didn't you hear what I just said? It's time to work!"

"Well, not in the way you do it…" mumbled Chase, head back in hands.

"I'm sorry! I didn't hear you over the sound of a dingo eating your baby!" The Aussie twang was apparent and insulting, no one willing to laugh or even acknowledge that he'd spoken. It was as though, from the moment that Cameron left, a thick fog of tension had crept up in the room, giving the air that it had become dark and uncomfortable. It was miserable, as it always had been under House's influential rule, but now that he'd become the fifth wheel under Ryuzaki's regime, it was ten times worse, and with no one willing to put up with him any longer, he couldn't work, not like this. He was used to being able to kick around his team members and getting them to bend under his rule like obedient pipe cleaners, but with Ryuzaki in the way, he had become unnecessary, and no one would listen to the man that was second-in-command when it came to competence.

Finally, the trilling sound of a pager filled the room and sucked away the tension, making it easier to breathe. All the doctors in the office checking their devices, it was when Chase pulled out his that they received the message: _Patient is gone. He has- _

Having looked over Chase's shoulder to read the message, House straightened up, smiling. "Say," he said, "don't you hate it when those things cut out like that? It's like opening up a fortune cookie to find that the cookie's covered half the fortune. Or like taking a brain scan to find out that someone had their fingers covering the screen the whole time-"

"Yes, we get the metaphor." Said Foreman, disgruntled, "So, what are we going to do about it? Let him carry on, wild and free, and hope that whatever he's done won't cause too much of a mess? Or help Cameron with him, and hope to God he hasn't made too much of a mess, because after earlier, I am _not_ cleaning up more mess!"

"We'll do neither," House replied, pacing the room in his usual limped manner, "the female doctor's got this, and if any of us strong men go to the rescue, we'll be sued for implying that a woman can't look after herself, and I'll lose my cane." Without so much more than a glance, Chase and Foreman looked to Ryuzaki, the only one who seemed to them to be making sense.

"He's right." The Detective said simply. "After all, we don't know what Light Yagami has done, nor what state he is in. If we all barge in, assuming that he will harm Dr Cameron as he did Drs House and Foreman, and instead find civility, we'll be struck off by the patient for mistrusting him, and we'll interfere with Dr Cameron's work."

"Work?" asked Chase, "What do you mean by that? All she's doing is psycho-sitting for us while we get closer to figuring it out."

"Yes, but that's not all he is doing: I have calculated each of your potentials from the moment I met each of you, and from what I can tell you, Dr Cameron is the one most likely to gain his trust, and act as a medium between him and us. If what they say about his clairvoyant powers is true – as both Drs House and Foreman experienced – he will find, we hope, nothing wrong with her history, and find her the most acceptable. Kira, after all, loves the innocent and condemns the wicked, and as far as I can certainly tell, there is very little wicked about her, if at all.

"We should leave her to it, and wait for her to ask us for help, when she needs it."

* * *

**Whew, that was a long one, but I'm sure that it's made up for the little updating. I'm aiming to find ways in which to ultimately change the up and coming events, so please be patient and wait for the next one! You can of course tell me what you thought of it in a review, and please take up the opportunity to give in your vote on the poll, if you haven't already. **

**As for the chapter title, this was a last minute decision, and there were so many that I wanted to use, but couldn't, because I knew that they'd fit later on, so, because I couldn't find any other significance, I used this one, of course to talk about what happened near the end, with the "The Patient is gone" message. But, it has been so long since I've listened to Avenged Sevenfold, that it's not surprising that it took me a while to choose a title. Lately, I've been listening to the All-American Rejects' Move Along album, which has, believe it or not, started to come in useful for thinking up for 'Beyond the Horrors', especially the song 'Dance Inside' (if you've heard that song before, then you can imagine where it'll be useful, but if not, then listen to it, you won't regret it).**

**Yeah, that distracted me, not to mention getting propositioned by a fellow student in front of a teacher… *ahem*… more on that later, I think. **

**Thanks for waiting so patiently, and I hope you enjoyed another chapter of 'Art of Subconscious Illusion: Rewritten'!**


	6. Unholy Confessions

**Here we are, another chapter (finally). I still get the feeling that this could've been done in so many other ways, and this could've been done better. Still, at least most of the mistakes in this have been cleared up and straightened out. **

**I remember, in the author's note for this chapter, back in the original, I was talking about the Death Note live action, and how a younger Colin Firth would've suited L's part, however, now that I've seen his most recent film, I'll have to admit that he's still pretty dishy. Another difference between then and now is Joseph Gordon-Levvit's explosive stellar performance in Inception, which has further cemented my opinion that he should be our L, rather than Matsuda. Matsuda is still way too incompetent. A nice shot, but incompetent all the same. Ah well, let's hope the guys behind Death Note's production get a move on soon. **

**Just to remind you all, there is a poll on my profile, of which you should complete if you can, as it'll most likely decide the next project. In fact, please do it if you can, it's quite important you do. **

**Most of the wheat has been separated from the chaff now, so it's just a question of writing it all down and getting a bloody wiggle on over here. **

**All the best, eh?**

* * *

Chapter 6

Unholy Confessions

_In Mercer County, New Jersey today, High School student Linda Tailor won the state Cat Show today with her four year old white Persian known as Sheba. This wasn't much of a feat for the perfect pussy cat, thanks to her beautiful white fur, big blue eyes, and a vicious attitude that had most of the contestants cowering in fear and too ill to participate. _Looking behind him at the accompanying picture of the 1st ribbon-winning feline, the anchor man looked back at the screen, giving a smirk – evidently meant to be his winning smile – before looking over to the petite woman standing a few feet away. _And now, _he said, white teeth gleaming, _back to Kate with the weather. _

_Of course, _she said, _According to the studio's meteorologists, the rain across New Jersey will be rather like a fat man on a blind date: Heavy, covering a wide area, and awkward at times. _

A small snort was heard among the bleeps of the heart monitor followed by the crunches of solid flesh against even more solid teeth, and the slurps as the flesh released the streams of its blood against the flesh-eater's maw. The body beside the flesh-eater laid still and silent among the steady beeps, unaware of what fate had in store for him.

The young man sat on the bed beside the recumbent figure of the John Joe Jersey (more commonly known as the 'Coma Guy'), a half-eaten dark red apple in his right hand, his left hand wiping away the liquid that decorated his chin from the juiciness of the apple. Soon finished devouring the fruit, he placed the core next to the fruit basket on the bedside table, his eye continuously fixed on the large cable TV which – according to the patient's notes – was permanently fixed to only play shows on the Fox Network, this being the only network the patient watched while slobbing about the house most days (Light, of course, knew first-hand about the TV's quality: he'd tried every technique in the book to switch it onto an alternative network – even a game show on CBS would've been preferable).

Right now, the TV was blaring out the current barely-Network-Approved version of Fox News that existed these days, which – like Sakura TV – was famous for broadcasting the stories that the better news shows wouldn't touch, at the same time taking every chance to mock and distort everything with a series of tasteless jokes. So, accepting his lot, Light sat relaxing on the bed with his feet up watching Fox News, while taking advantage of the free food available, and the fact that Ryuk wasn't there to steal his apples.

Suddenly, the door of the room swung open, a dark-haired woman in a lab-coat leaning against the doorframe, a pager in one hand and a look of exasperation on her face. "There you are." She said, putting the device back in a pocket of her lab-coat for safe-keeping. Light, half-expecting the visit, barely flinched from his position on the bed, eyes still focused on the TV. "I've told the team that you've been found, but that's no excuse for running off." Looking about ready to deliver the biggest scolding she'd ever had to give, she stood up straight, closed the door and walked to towards him, only to be stopped in her tracks.

Light had finally looked away from the screen, only to glare at her in the eye with undisguised hostility, freezing her stiff with the basic but effective emotional display. Cameron didn't dare move from the spot she was fixed in, her breath catching I her throat. _If looks could kill… _The minor revelation would've distracted her, had it not been for Light's eyes, now glittering like rubies beneath his hooded brow. They looked her up and down, like the infamous Male Gaze, except for the fact that there was simply nothing sexual about it – it was intrusive instead, as though he was mentally probing her.

As quick as it had happened, Light averted his gaze, Cameron's tense muscles relaxing once more, allowing her to bow her head and catch her breath, to recover. When he looked back to her again, she stiffened, her body now prepared to a second onslaught – but it didn't come. Instead, she was met with a handsome smile, and brown eyes that seemed to radiate warmth. "Hello," he said, bowing his head to her. She was unsure as to whether this was from genuine respect, or due to a habit or tic, so she made a move to bow back, with hands on her lap, eyes downcast in the conventional Japanese woman's bow, only to be met with a gentle laugh.

"Don't worry," he said, his English accented, "there's no need to be so formal with me! I'm the patient after all, right?"

"Y-yes, of course." She replied, still hesitant as she stood up straight again. She was usually quite adept in social situations, as her profession demanded, but right now, the ever-flitting manner of her patient's behaviour was catching her off guard, and she couldn't help but ready herself for the next change of heart. _Perhaps he's Bipolar… or has a split personality?_

Keeping that in mind, and gathering her thoughts, Cameron knew that she now had to be careful with whatever she said from now on, aware that the slightest slip could prove fatal or life-threatening, considering what Light Yagami had already proved himself capable of. Thankfully, the bowing mistake had been laughed off, but who knows when this tolerance will disappear?

"So, Mr Yagami-"

"Please, call me Light." He said, interrupting innocently.

"So, Light, how did you escape? Why are you here?"

"Oh, do you mean in reality, not in 'Hell', or just in this room?" Pretending that the first question had never been uttered, he let it slide, deciding that the first one was more worth his time answering. "Well, Dr House comes here for his lunch often, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does, but that's beside the point." Cameron disguised her astonishment at the declaration, trying to keep in mind that this boy also knew about House's drug-stealing habit from apparently nowhere, so it shouldn't be surprising that he'd known this: Really, this was just a minor demonstration of Clairvoyance or ESP, nothing comparable to the first.

"Yeah," Light sighed, "I suppose, but he probably did something to deserve it, anyway."

"Really, what did he do to deserve having strangers sit on his bed and eat food off his own plate? What do you know about it?" Her tone was probably too confrontational considering what she was trying to do here, and she expected the young man to snap right there and then.

Instead, Light smiled in response, as though this was all a joke, "What are you asking me for? I wouldn't know this man from Adam!" She knew he must've known – who in his position wouldn't try to find out – and so just chose not to tell her. If he could find anything out about anyone with sight alone, then he would've been able to find out easily that Coma Guy wasn't her patient, and not really any of her business.

Either that or he hadn't found out, and honestly 'didn't know him from Adam', but by his earlier remark, she doubted it.

Reaching for the fruit basket, he pulled out a golden-coloured apple flushed with pink, offering it to her. "Do you want an apple? He asked.

"Oh, no thank you. It wouldn't settle right with me knowing it isn't mine to take."

"Aw, come on," he teased, putting less distance between the doctor and the fruit, "all his food comes from over there." Light pointed to the life support machine, from which a tube lead from the appliance into the man's stomach. "What's wrong?" he asked, "it's just a Pink Lady!" With dexterity, he started the apple rolling, waving his hand from side-to-side in a swaying motion, causing the apple to roll from the palm to the top of the hand, making Cameron blush as deeply as the fruit.

Knowing he wouldn't stop unless she took it, she swiped the apple from his hand mid-roll, bit into it, and sat in the empty chair beside the bed. Light simply smiled down at her, like he'd known her for years.

After a lengthy pause, he spoke again, "So, how did you know where to find me?"

"Well," she began, "when I came to check on you, only to find that you'd escaped from your room somehow, I found the note on your bedside table." She pulled out the note from her lab coat pocket, that is, the bottom half that Light had left earlier, written with Light's neat English script.

"_Dear Sir/Madam_"_, _Cameron read, pausing for a moment to glance at Light, "_If I am not back by the time you're reading this, I am still on my walk around the hospital. Please don't worry. I feel fine, and I will be back after I've had my exercise. Yours sincerely, Light Yagami._"Placing the small slip of paper back in her pocket, she addressed the young man directly. "Light," she said, her face and voice filled with concern, "I can understand that you'd want to have a walk after being cooped up all the time like you have, no doubt, but after what happened earlier, do you really think that anyone would allow you to just walk around unaccompanied and unnoticed?" With the façade, it seemed, of someone who'd realised how guilty he really was, he hung his head, not allowing their eyes to meet, like a villain in a children's sketch who'd been caught red-handed.

"However," Cameron sighed, "What I really can't understand is how you actually managed to escape: You were strapped up in a strait jacket with your ankles tied to the bed for goodness sake!"

Light stayed silent for a long moment, deeply considering his answer before finally loosening his tongue, "I just got loose, that's all." He said, not an ounce of expression or feeling in the answer. He obviously didn't want to say any more on the subject, and Cameron knew better to push her luck harder than she already had. His boundaries were still untested, the different facets of his strange personality still unclear. _That is, after all, why we're here, _she thought, knowing it to be true. With the silence set, tension grew with it, of which neither of them were willing to break. The television was now the loudest entity in the room, its canned laughter leaving the both of them uncomfortable, now that the conversation had broken down.

When the silence was finally broken, it was Light who spoke, his voice low and morbid, as though he was already mourning the consequences of his next statement, "If it's alright with you," he began, "I need to make a deal with you."

"Deal? What do you mean, 'deal'?" Cameron asked, confused at this request from a patient.

He ignored her questions, carrying on, "I know something is wrong with me, and so far, no one has been brave enough to get near me, never mind diagnose me. If you and your team of doctors can diagnose me in one week, then I will accept it and undergo every treatment necessary to get better. If you fail, however, then I will take the sorry excuse of your Doctor House's life as payment, and your hospital will join the many of the other failures."

Cameron glared at Light in horror, unable to take it in. "B-but… what kind of a deal is that?"

"A deal that, so far, every doctor has agreed to and subsequently failed at. This is really only fair."

"Okay… but if you take part in this deal too, wouldn't that put becoming Kira in danger?" Cameron, like the other doctors, had heard what Light had said earlier to House, and was confused as to why he'd want to put a stop to his own goal. _Yet again more evidence of a split personality, or black and white thinking. _

"Indeed," Light replied, "but every time I get a step closer to realising these goals, the looks on the faces of my family are enough to remind me of the wrong I'm doing, of the pain I'm causing them. Before all of this happened, before this all got out of control, I was their perfect son. I was smart, good-looking, athletic, and a credit to everything they stood for until I… snapped. Everything that was going through my mind before then, all the madness… I hid it so well; they didn't even see it coming. They didn't have a clue." Light paused for a moment, as though he'd suddenly thought that he'd gone too far, revealed too much, but when Cameron made no effort to indicate this, or to join in the conversation, he continued. "You know, while I was in some hospital in June, two months into the clinic crawl, it was my sister's 15th birthday, and do you know what happened on that day?"

Cameron shook her head, and let Light answer for her, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing: All Mom, Dad and Sayu did that day was rush around looking for the doctor they needed to speak to to get a strong enough sedative for me because I didn't want to cooperate with a part-time arsonist. It was another week before they'd realised what day it was and that Sayu's birthday had gone unnoticed. She told me later that she'd forgiven me for it, and that it would've been selfish of her to mention her birthday while I was still in a hell-bent state, knowing something could've happened to me as a result, but… there was no mistaking her resentment.

"That's why," Light continued, closing his eyes, "I'm making this deal with you now. I know that I'm in my right mind now, and that right now I know that stopping myself like this is the right thing to do, but I also know that I can snap at any moment, and become Kira again. With Kira, it's not a question of sanity, but of obligation to his calling – my calling – and I'll need all of your help for me to get out of it."

"But, Light," said Cameron, "as your doctor, I'm supposed to treat you no matter what, and it would be really irresponsible of me to allow a colleague's life to be used for bartering with, even if this particular colleague is a pain in everyone's behind."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, really sounding it, "but it's either accept the deal and work on a one week long deadline, while contending with a fifty percent chance of your dear diagnostician's death, or decline, and have no chance to cure me, with a hundred percent chance of his death. It's really your call here." Cameron looked at him in renewed shock, unable to understand how a young man in his right mind could say something so terrible in so calm and blunt a manner. _But there's the rub – he's not in his right mind, even now, and for 5 or 6 months, he never has been._

Looking again into his deep brown eyes, Cameron sighed again, steeled her nerves, and offered her hand, "I'll accept the deal, and the accompanying terms." She said it begrudgingly. She hated the deal, and everything to do with it, but it was really the only way to keep the boy happy for as long as possible. In a way, House was now in her debt, after she'd just saved his ass from the perfect opportunity to permanently end his contract at the hospital, and so every life he saved afterwards would be technically thanks to her. However, she knew that this would just end badly – there was nothing worse than letting House owe her something. It would give him the liberty to 'owe' her back something that she would hate, and then she'd end up regretting it for the rest of her life.

Smiling, Light shook her hand, his eyes – for a split second – glinting red in the light of the room. The deal done, there was nothing left for them but to just sit in silence once more, to stew in their identical sense of foreboding, knowing for sure that much more bad than good was going to come out of this deal.

"I'm sorry," Light finally muttered, "I know you must hate me for forcing you to make such a decision on your own: You should've at least have been given the opportunity to confer with your peers before handing Dr House up like a lamb to the slaughter. I should've realised this before, and I'm sorry for the oversight on my part."

"It's okay," she replied, smiling, "at least he finally has a good incentive for doing his job. He's probably still got a sore throat from the strangling you gave him earlier. He's not going to forget that in a hurry, and he won't get on your bad side for that." Light gave another gentle laugh at this thought, imagining the sight of such an awful man's untimely yet comical murder by his own hands. The laughter was infectious, and Cameron joined in too, both of them laughing wildly at bulging blue eyes and deadening blue lips.

Suddenly, a loud knock sounded, and Light snapped out of his geniality, his head turning back around fast to look at the door. Moving too fast for his own good, he lost his balance, and fell off the bed.

Or, at least, he would have, had his hand not hooked around the back of Cameron's neck, dragging her down with him off her seat, making her yelp in both pain and surprise.

"House? Is that you?" A stranger's voice sounded from behind the door, before it opened upon the questionable scene: That is, the scene of a young female doctor leaned over a younger man, one of his large golden hands around her neck, a hand of hers at her throat.

"You!" the voice yelled, as Light's eyes glanced up to identify it, only to find a middle-aged man in a white lab coat, a syringe in his hand brandished like a weapon, "What are you doing?" Light and Cameron got up off the floor again, Cameron rubbing her throat, her hand held up in supplication, to indicate that all was well. "Wilson, please…"

Yet that wasn't how the gesture was taken. It looked more like one made in fear, as Light glared back at the male dangerously, his eyes the blood-red hue that reminded all of the bloodshed he was capable of causing. Taking the cover off with his teeth, Wilson ran towards Light, the needle held like a dagger. Threatened, Light swerved wildly to the right, and – rather than hitting the neck, as originally intended – Wilson missed, sticking it instead in the middle of the patient's back, cutting through his sweater, making him hiss in pain. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Wilson sunk the plunger in slowly, taking the syringe out in quick succession.

As the medicine took effect, Light felt his legs turn numb, and they buckled underneath him, setting him to his knees. Looking up at Wilson, he gave him the most intimidating ruby-eyed look he could muster, before closing them again and falling the rest of the way to the floor, allowing himself to give in for the moment.

"What are you doing, letting a patient like that free?" Wilson yelled at Cameron, his hands balled into fists now that they weren't holding the syringe, "Don't you know what he can do? He almost killed House and Foreman earlier, and you're letting him walk around without even a leash?"

"He was perfectly fine!" she yelled back, "I was about to take him back up to his room before you paralysed him from the waist down! Now, we've got to send for a wheelchair for him, and leaving him alone – paralysed or not – with a defenceless man in a coma is not an option I want to take!"

"Fine, fine," Dr Wilson was backing off now, hands in the air in submission, "I'll stay here with him, and you get the chair, okay?" Cameron left in a huff, slamming the door back behind her.

Placing his hands behind his back, Wilson began pacing the room, "I'm sorry about the whole paralysis thing, okay? It will wear off in an hour, two at the most." Light didn't say anything to this at first, preferring to stay silent and keep his eyes closed. He was biding his time now, putting all of his mental energies into formulating a plan on how to exact revenge on the foolish doctor who had, for the moment, taken away his ability to walk.

After five minutes of this tense silence, Light spoke up, startling the pacing oncologist, "You and Dr House are friends, right?" he asked, his voice low and quiet, yet echoing at the same time. Wilson blinked at the unexpected question, unable to work out how such as this patient knew. Taking the silence as an affirmative, Light continued, "I know about how he keeps you around for entertainment, just to listen to stories about your ex-wives. If you're wondering how I'm going to pay you back for this, then don't: I'm not going to do anything more than what I've already outlined to Cameron-sensei. Ask her, and she will, no doubt, tell you everything."

"But… what are you going to do?" before Light could answer, Cameron came in, wheeling in the chair in front of her. And, as Wilson lifted the patient up from under the arms and into the chair, Light looked Cameron dead in the eye, before uttering two words: "Seven days." And so, for the rest of the day – day one of the Deal – Light Yagami said nothing more than that, and no one could persuade him otherwise.

* * *

**Ah, finished. Thanks to Avenged Sevenfold's most recent album, choosing chapter titles has both become easier and harder than ever. However, despite all that, I decided on another trip to their golden oldies. I mean, their new stuff is good, but their old stuff still has a place in my heart somewhere, hence this title. I mean, listening to the lyrics, it wasn't too long before I realised how well they nicely summed up the story so far. Besides, **_**Nothing hurts my world/Just affects the ones around me… Two vibrant hearts could change…Constrict your hands around me/Squeeze til I cannot breathe. **_**Very suitable. Listening to this song still gives me that good feeling, especially the guitar riffs – perhaps because I first listened to this back when I was 11-13 years old, and it's still a special part of my childhood. Never thought you'd hear someone describe some righteous Heavy Metal in that manner, hmm? For more of the lyrics, just go on , and let the suitability commence. **

**Sorry for the TMI and personal nature of this note – I just had to say it, this song considered. Hopefully, nothing too gross next time. **

**Next time on 'AoSI: R': The team get further in their investigation; shocking truths are revealed; and the deal, believe it or not, is ready to take its toll on the team. **

**So, please R&R, and stay tuned for Art of Subconscious Illusion, chapter 7!**


	7. Nightmare

**Here, the seventh instalment of Art of Subconscious Illusion: Rewritten, ready to enjoy. Considering the ample progress that we're making, I think the time may come to henceforth delete the original fic, and let this one be the 'One and Only' (as Chesney Hawkes would say). This would be useful, in particular, because of the 'don't put up the same story twice' rule, which this barely avoids, and the fact that, from here on out, I'll be giving you completely new, original, never-before-seen footage, and so getting rid of the discontinued fic would keep that impression of originality. I'm currently on the fence about it, so if you can find the time to vote in the poll over whether or not to delete the original, that would be immensely useful.**

**All the best, eh?**

* * *

Chapter VII

Nightmare

Once the patient had been returned back to his room and into the arms of his worried parents, Cameron and Wilson made their way back to House's office, where Drs House, Chase, Foreman, and the child-like Ryuzaki were waiting for them, all standing with their arm folded in annoyance – apart from Ryuzaki of course, who was still crouching in his seat, now preoccupied with a lollipop of the maroon-coloured cherry flavoured variety. Now in the relative calm of the office, and virtually away from danger, Cameron unclipped her bug from the sleeve of her shirt beneath her lab coat, and gave it to Ryuzaki, who set it up to be listened to on House's PC, while her and Wilson let spill about what happened during their search for Light Yagami.

When they'd finished listening to the audio, the reactions around the room were very different. Ryuzaki, for one, carried on licking idly at his lollipop, his eyes noticeably narrowing behind his mask. Foreman and Chase, however, looked worried, Chase covering his mouth with his hand while Foreman began to sweat. House, however, who had every reason to be worried about his potentially imminent death, did nothing. Well, nothing other than stay where he was, preparing himself for a witty comeback. "Seven days?" he asked, "Ha! I could diagnose this kid in three days, and with a hand tied behind my back!" House, with his Simba-like trait of laughing in the face of danger, was never one to disappoint, death being no excuse in his book.

"Per-lease!" Foreman sighed, wiping away the sweat, "Curing that _kid_ is going to be harder for us than it is for a drug addict to quit, and even the mighty House could do _that_ in three days!"

Suddenly, Chase was bent over double with laughter, "'You will die in seven days…' hey, Cameron, Koji Suzuki called, he wants his catchphrase back!"

"Shut up," she retorted, "this is really serious business. We have seven days to diagnose an extremely violent, mentally ill patient who probably has a split personality, and if that wasn't enough, thinks he's Kira."

"First of all, we really only have six days, as today counts as the first one." Said Ryuzaki, with an erudite finger, "Second of all, split personality? Explain."

"Well, when we all first met him, he was manic, going on about 'eradicating filth' and killing criminals, but when he was talking with me a little while ago, he was talking about not wanting to be Kira anymore because he didn't want to hurt his family. In my opinion, that could not be because he's having manic episodes, but because he has a second personality – a 'Kira personality' – who has his own motives and his own way of thinking, with his real personality – the 'Light Personality' – battling for control, hence the deal he made with us."

"I really doubt that," said Foreman, dominating the conversation, "because if that were true, then we wouldn't have anything to blame the hallucinations on, and since a myriad of things can cause hallucinations, we'd be practically on step 1 again."

"Thank you, Dr Foreman," said Ryuzaki, "but while this reasoning is sound enough, let me point out that perhaps the hallucinations are causing the onset of the episodes themselves. Besides, we won't be on step 1, not really. As Dr Cameron can see from the board, we have, in her absence, narrowed his condition down to four possible candidates, and noted down symptoms."

Indeed, the wipe board was already half-filled with red-dry-wipe-marker writing, declaring:

Major manic episodes (w/ Psychotic undertones) – Possibly Manic Depressive

Delusions of Grandeur

Over-Explanation (caused by internal pressure)

Hyper-Activity

Hyper-Religiosity

Belligerence

Hallucinations (Find out what 'Ryuk' is)

Distorted Sense of Self/Self Worth (Believes he is KIRA)

Clairvoyance (?) – Retro-cognition

Strong Sense of Justice – Black and White Thinking

Possibly:

Schizophreniform Disorder (symptoms for longer than 1 month, poss. more than 6). Least likely.

Schizophrenia – possibly Paranoid type (needs delusions & hallucination for confirmation).

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPB)

Bipolar Disorder

Schizoaffective Disorder

"Schizophrenia?" Cameron asked, "It can't possibly be that, could it? He was perfectly coherent when he was talking to me, with no loss of train of thought, or subject flow, and there was definitely no word salad. He wasn't even catatonic, and there was a lack of affective flattening."

"Like it says on the board," Replied Foreman, "only delusions and hallucinations need to be present for a successful diagnosis, and so far, that's working for me. In that case, we can put him on a course of Thorazine to begin with."

"But, how would Schizophrenia account for everything else? There _are _more than just those symptoms on the board, you know! Like major manic episodes, distorted sense of self and worth, and even clairvoyance!"

"Would it help if I told you that – according to his file – his brain scan showed perfect health, and there is a possibility that clairvoyance is not a symptom, but really a cause?" Ryuzaki offered.

"No!" came the yell in unison.

"Dammit, we're getting nowhere fast. We may as well just put him on the drug now and wait to see what happens. That one's a slow reactor, so that'll give us the rest of the day to diagnose without interference, thanks to the sedating effect. If he is schizophrenic, then my neck's off the dotted line." Foreman stared at him, both in surprise that his suggestion had been taken on board, and partly because he wasn't sure if he'd heard him right.

"Yeah, you heard me right. Just give him the syrup!" Foreman rushed out of the office at that, making his way down to the Pharmacy, and leaving House, Cameron, Chase, Wilson and Ryuzaki to talk in peace.

* * *

Barely half an hour after Cameron and Wilson had taken Light back to his room; Dr Foreman came in to find Light lying on his bed, the strait jacket on his lap as he drank a glass of water, a copy of Stephen King's _Carrie _in his other hand. His mother was sat in a chair beside the bed, twiddling her thumbs while his father stayed stood up, pacing the room. His little sister was luging in another chair, a DS in one hand and a stylus in the other. Occasionally, she'd look up and try to read a snippet of the little paperback, but at every such instance, Light would close the book on one of his fingers, shake a finger at her, and only continue when she'd returned her attention back to her _Professor Layton_ game.

At the sound of the door sliding open, everyone looked up from their activities to the intruder save for Light, who just continued reading. When his father noticed, he took the red and white paperback out of his hands and muttered something to him in Japanese, prompting him to look up and pay attention to the visiting doctor. Once again, Light's eyes shone dark red at the sight of the black doctor, making the hairs on the back of Foreman's neck stand on end. Although it was the second time that day that he'd been subjected to the young man's mental probe, he was yet to be prepared for the feeling of nakedness that came with it, like nothing was a secret anymore.

It was only when Light broke the gaze and looked down, preoccupying himself with the strait jacket that Foreman was able to introduce himself, and explain the unexpected visit. "Good afternoon," he said, "I'm Dr Foreman, and I'm on the diagnostician team in charge of your son's health.

"Thank you, Dr Foreman, we appreciate your help." Said the father. The speech was one he'd delivered so many times to other doctors, so his speech was fluent in speaking it. Hastily, he took hold of Foreman's hand, shaking it briskly before introducing himself. "My name is Soichiro Yagami, and this is my wife Sachiko, and my daughter Sayu. Obviously you've already met my son, Light." He blushed a little at this, coughing slightly in embarrassment of the event in which Light and Foreman 'met'.

Foreman allowed himself a little smile at this. Soichiro Yagami seemed to be a very brisk man who didn't like wasting time, and for that, Foreman was thankful. "Yes, of, course. I'm glad to say that great progress has been made in the diagnosis, of which could be any of four conditions. At the moment, paranoid type Schizophrenia seems to be the most likely, and while the clairvoyance is as of yet unexplained, the answer to that, I'm sure, will come in due time." Foreman's posture was of a trademark practitioner – back straight, hands behind his back, and the obligatory squeaky-clean smile, like everything could possibly work out in the end.

"Schizophrenia? Is that all?" asked Sachiko, her once dull face lighting up with relief.

"It could be," Foreman answered, "but because of the nature of the condition, we can't know for certain until further tests have been carried out, but so far, it's the best diagnosis we have." (Read: It's the only one we have, and the only reason we're pushing for this one is because no one so far is bothered to come up with any better. This is one of the many lies we doctors get away with telling you, and you'll be hearing a lot more of these from now on.)

"What do you mean, you can't know for certain?" asked Soichiro, a hint of outrage in his voice, "Are you trying to tell us that your staff are so incompetent, that the best they can do is come up with an easy option and stick to it just so they can go home easy thinking they did something worthwhile?" _Well, you could say that… _

"I'm sorry, Mr Yagami, but the fact is that no symptom is characteristic of Schizophrenia, and while we have no records of recent brain scans, or the possibility of substance abuse, we cannot know for certain at the moment. This is why we're prescribing your son Thorazine: it's an effective treatment of the condition, so if Light does have it, we'll know we're already on the right track."

Realising that the doctor knew best, Soichiro gave up easily, sighing deeply. Now that he'd commanded their full respect, Foreman took a small bottle of the Thorazine syrup and a 5ml medicine spoon out of his lab coat pocket, setting the items on the serving tray on the end of Light's bed – right where it was out of the way, but within reach when needed. "Now, all Light has to do is take two 5ml doses of this every twelve hours. Considering that it's 12pm now, you can give him the two does now, and another at either midnight or any time close enough before he goes to sleep. Can I trust that you do that without my supervision?"

Soichiro nodded, and so did Sachiko and Sayu. Light, however, didn't appear to be paying any attention, alternating between counting the threads of the jacket and scrutinizing the lampshade on the bedside table. "Is that all?" asked Soichiro, not unkindly.

"Yes," replied Foreman, "and I'm sure you all know what to do if you need me at all." It wasn't a question, so as soon as he saw Sachiko reach for the bottle, Foreman left without another word, closing the door behind him.

He had barely walked a few paces out of the room when he felt a tug at his lab coat from behind. Turning around, he saw Sayu standing there, a beseeching look upon her face. "Excuse me," she asked, "but I wanna share something with you." As the girl was only 15 years old, and a little short for her age by American standards, Foreman had to bend down on one knee to talk to her, and he did so, allowing them both the luxury of being able to see eye-to-eye.

"What is it?" he asked, using his 'Trusting-Friend' voice, "Do you want to say thank you or anything? Because I'm sure you can say that in front of your parents, no problem."

"It's not that," She answered, blushing slightly, "It's just that I've got a few things to say about Light that you might wanna know."

"Oh?"

"I know I'm not smart or anything, but I think they're important, and I wanna help in any way I can." Like with Light, her accent wasn't very pronounced – at least, not as much as her parents' accents were – but it did leave an almost sweet edge to her words.

"Could you tell me, please?"

"Oh…erm…okay." Clearly, Sayu hadn't expected her request to be accepted so easily. Clearing her throat, she explained. "You see, Light always wanted to be a detective like Dad, and ever since Middle school, if we ever had a problem, or a secret, he could always figure it out, no matter what. He'd even tell us how he figured it out." Sayu sighed at this point. "He's so smart, and everything was so easy for him. But, in his third year at high school, he would stay up in his room and study for getting into college. At first, I thought that was so… until he stopped speaking to us, and he only spoke when he came home, of when he was forced to at the dinner table. It was like he didn't enjoy our company any more. Every now and again, I'd even walk in on him doing odd stuff that _wasn't _studying."

"At first, we all thought it was because he was a normal teenager, and he never saw enough of dad, because he was always at work… but I'm sure it's not that."

Having listened intently the whole time, he finally spoke up at her pause. "So?" he asked, friendly voice still in place, "What do you think it is?"

"Well, I've been reading a few leaflets, and… I think he's got anhedonia." Foreman's eyes widened at the revelation, and without a further thought, he enveloped Sayu in a bone-crunching hug, before running off down the corridor, the tails of his lab coat flapping in the breeze behind him.

"Thank you!" he yelled from over his shoulder, leaving the long-suffering girl more bewildered than before they'd ever met.

_Anhedonia, _he thought, _the inability to experience common human pleasure… If he really is as smart as they say he is, then he would have struggled to find a challenge worthy enough to preoccupy him, which would cause a breakdown in the Brain's Reward System, hence the anhedonia! Maybe even the reason he's Kira, too! It's a symptom of Schizophrenia, Schizoaffective Disorder, _and _Schizoid Personality Disorder!"_

Now that he knew this, he couldn't wait to get back to the team!

It was now coming to the end of Day 1 of the Deal, and even though so much ground had been covered, and although they were so close to the conclusion, that conclusion seemed so far away.

* * *

September 8th 2006

Day 2

The day dawned bright that morning, and thanks to yesterday's progress, the team were at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital bright and early, excited for the prospect of another job well done. House was happy that morning, or rather, bright eyed bordering on bushy tailed. Before the clock could even strike 8:30am, rumours had spread of stronger medication, of Cuddy spiking his tea, even of the use of marijuana, all because such joviality had never been observed before in the old miser.

"Good morning, ever-loving care givers!" Was what he'd greeted the Night-Shift nurses with as they passed him in the main entrance, the once-grouchy MD practically skipping and whistling as he clocked in. he'd even made a move to put on his lab coat before he remembered himself, put it back on the dusty hook slowly, before walking to his office with a resumed whistle and hobble. It had been nearly ten years ago the last time he'd done that, and no one was sorry to see it again.

He walked into his office to find Foreman, Chase, and Cameron rifling through their paperwork at the table, eager to get it out of the way before their 'proper' job began – that is, the curing of Light Yagami. They didn't even look up when he walked through the door, hearing the whistling and unable to mentally associate House with the sound. Sure, they'd heard him play the piano and rock hard on a guitar, but whistle? Never!

Keeping their eyes trained on their paper work, they tried desperately to ignore the whistling sound that hovered over their ears: It may have been a good thing that House was so happy, but the fact that this act had gone unpractised for over a decade, resulting in a lack of tune to this once-thought cheerful sound made it almost unbearable to listen to. Then again, what was becoming more and more unbearable was thinking about why House was so happy. Surely whatever had stirred the happy feelings in the old codger couldn't be good, right? Had he done away with Ryuzaki? Had he been with his favourite Nightly Dame? Had he been with Cuddy?

Hopefully though, their exaggerations would be just that – exaggerated. Perhaps it was just the fictitious marijuana talking? "So, fellow-partners-in-care-giving," began House, smiling as he slouched into his chair, leaning his cane against the table and putting his feet up, "any updates?"

Without even looking up, Chase responded with a long expelling of air, before speaking. "Nope, nothing. As far as we know, he's still fast asleep in his room."

"Yeah," replied Foreman, wiping his forehead with the back of a white sleeve, "I suppose yesterday's manic mayhem tuckered him out a little and then some." A pause ensued, and house stared expectantly at each of them, eyebrows raised.

"So…" House began, "when you're happy and you know it…"

"Check the file?" asked Cameron, putting down the paperwork, and taking Light Yagami's medical file from underneath her chair. Chase and foreman followed suit, and began poring over them: Thanks to yesterday's events, they had only had the chance to take mere glances at the file itself, using their brief interactions with the patient as the main basis for their discoveries.

"Yes, now check for anything odd, anything that'd be out of place for the average healthy Joe: Foreman, check through his previous brain scans; Chase, check through the list of previous symptoms and Cameron…" he paused for a moment, thinking.

"Yes?" she asked, expectantly.

"Check for… everything else." Ducking her head back down, she grumbled quietly to herself, flicking through the file with noticeably less vigour.

"Hey, Cameron," House said, eyes trained on her as she looked up, "with_out_ the attitude, if you please? Just get checking on the file! Maybe you can see if the darling boy was _diddled _by _Daddy_…" With a newly disgusted look on her face, Cameron returned to the file, reading intently, trying her best to curry the favour of her boss.

Now that Cameron and House's conversation had shifted towards its uneasy end, the team sat and stood in silence poring over their files for unchecked anomalies of what could otherwise be a perfect person. This silence henceforth stood for an unrecorded amount of time, before Cameron put her hand up, motioning for the others. "Look here," she said, pointing to a line on the first page, where the medical history was printed. "According to the history," she continued, the others crowding around her, "Light was actually born a twin."

"You mean his sister Sayu is actually his twin sister?" asked Chase, giving Cameron a puzzled look.

"Personally, I wouldn't have guessed," said House, swinging his cane idly, "Isn't she a bit stumpy to be his womb-mate?"

"No, of course not," said Cameron, shaking her head. "His sister is three years younger than him. No, he has a twin brother… or rather, had a twin brother…"

"So?" asked Foreman, his brow creased with concern and confusion, "where is this guy? Light may be crazy and homicidal, but that's no reason to leave the twin at Grandma's and take the more vulnerable little sister along instead."

"I was getting to that. You see, the twin brother-"

"Died?" asked Chase. "Is that it? Was it due to a genetic disease?" he made a grab for the file, but Cameron was too quick for him, and she snatched it back from underneath his nose.

"Was it some freakishly tragic accident linked to a genetic disease?" Demanded Foreman.

"Was the kid just clumsy?" Asked House, half-heartedly. He was nowhere near as excited as the others, and to him, there was no need to be: After all, a dead kid was a useless kid as far as his investigations usually went (it's not like he or she can tell him where it hurts or anything).

"No, no, and no," she answered, replying to each of her colleagues. "He was-"

Suddenly, a small beep issued from House's pocket, and Cameron was forever interrupted. Everyone else went quiet, leaving a tense silence save for the continuous bleeping.

"It's our Ripper…" House said, his voice almost a whisper. "He's not in much of a killing mood today…"

Sure enough, Chase and Cameron arrived breathless at Light's room, their eyes wide at the sight that met their eyes. Sachiko, Soichiro and Sayu were clustered around Light's bed, the positioning of their bodies blocking Case and Cameron's view of him, as well as blocking their way to him. They could hear him though: His breathing was laboured, coming in short, ragged bursts. Occasionally, he'd give a moan of pain that would strangle its way out of a bitten lip.

Finally pushing their way through a worried family, the two doctors stared in horror at the spectacle before them. Light was crouched up on his bed like a crow, his knees brought up to his chest and his contorted form balancing precariously on his feet, his shoulders rounded and hands clutched to his knees. Purple bruises like bags had formed underneath his eyes from lack of sleep, these eyes half-lidded and fogged dark with pain, the pupils darting from side to side in dreading suspicion. His mouth was contorted into a line turned down at the corners, like a rip in clothing, an effect augmented by the lips that had been bitten to shreds while slowly turning blue. The moans of pain were caused by spasms in his muscles that, starting from the legs, ran up the body, nails digging in through the trousers with tension, his head pressing against his knees.

Had it not been such a terrible circumstance, Chase and Cameron might have been able to appreciate the irony behind such a pose – it was too reminiscent of their detective Ryuzaki.

The doctors heard footsteps behind them, and in entered Foreman carrying a syringe filled with an unknown substance. Suddenly, as Light lifted his head to see Foreman, his expression of pain transmuted into one of utter revulsion. His whimpered turned to growls and his bleeding lip almost gave a narrow smirk. "You!" he said, his voice nothing more than a broken snarl in his throat, his eyes glowing dangerously with fury.

Taking a deep breath, Foreman stepped forward, grabbing hold of Light by the shoulder and pulling him down onto the pillows, the young man's distorted shape still maintained. Light struggled furiously, failing as Foreman inserted the syringe into his too-tense arm, forcing from him a yell. "You'll pay!" he managed to snarl, before being quieted by arriving staff nurses, and hidden from view by their presence.

"So," muttered Cameron, stepping back a little, "I suppose it's not Schizophrenia, then."

* * *

**And that was chapter 7. I'm glad I've done this one, considering the fact that I am no longer tied down to the original. In fact, from now on I am no longer going on 'autopilot', but actually holding on to the wheel, with both hands at 10 and 2. With this finished, it has actually given me hope that it will be finished soon. With a sequel in the making, only the Shinigami know how this is going to eventually turn out, with any luck. I would've have this up for Friday, Saturday or Sun day, but I have been working hard for the institution on something that, with any luck, we'll all be able to appreciate at some point. **

**As for the chapter title this time, I decided that the best thing to do would be just to use something that would suffice only roughly, as nothing else seemed to fit. There might have been over more fitting ones, but I probably have better plans for them. When I chose this one, I imagined what it must've been like to be under the influence of the Thorazine, especially after such a reaction to it. **

**Still, now that we're no longer on Day 1, we can move on a bit more with this whole thing, and with any luck, we'll be storming through this with more confidence. However, at this point, I'd like to remind you of the poll that will be on momentarily, of the decision of whether or not to go 'sakujo' on the original version of this, for the reasons revealed above. If you have time to vote on this, you must, because it's a very important decision that must be made. **

**So, just R&R, vote if you can, and stay tuned for AoSI: R chapter 8.**


	8. Brompton Cocktail

**After such a long wait, I now give to you chapter 8 of **_**The Art of Subconscious Illusion: Rewritten**_**. Just to warn you, from this point onward, some of the science may not be totally and completely reliable or holding true as it does in reality, although I have tried to be very accurate (as I have with the metal illnesses here, where the info and examples in this fic are very accurate to what is shown on Wikipedia). Do keep in mind, as this is a medical drama, this is technically a Science Fiction, and so I can and will take liberties every now and again. While you'll probably be able to spot where this happens for yourself, if anything stands out as being really dubious to you (or indeed dubious in any way at all), just do the sane thing and ask, okay? You'll know what to do. **

**Since you enjoyed this crossover so much, could I suggest to you another crossover of mine? It's called 'NoHoper' and it's a crossover between Death Note and the House Of Night series. While it sounds pretty bad from this premise, I do believe it's better than it sounds here.**

**Thanks for waiting, and all the best.**

* * *

Chapter VIII

Brompton Cocktail

"So," mused House, as Chase. Cameron and Foreman returned to the office, "Just because our patient suffers a slightly adverse effect to the Thorazine, and diagnosing him with Schizophrenia was just a quick-fix solution to explain the hallucinations anyway, you think it's not Schizophrenia?"

"Yes," Cameron answered, her back straightening as she sat down at her usual seat, "that's right."

"Typical," was the response, and he sat back down in his seat, "the moment we make a breakthrough, you want to ruin it all just because our kid doesn't want to take his medicine. You know what I say? Get used to it. The kid's lucky he's got our exclusive team treating him in the first place-"

"But that's the thing!" Chase protested, "We're not really treating him. The risks of continuing on this course of action far outweigh the benefits here – if we let him stay on a medication that will debilitate him for the rest of his life just because the diagnosis is quick, easy, and barely fits, then we're breaking the Hippocratic Oath."

"The Hip…po…what?" House asked, feigning stupidity.

"The Hippocratic Oath," Foreman echoed. "The Oath all doctors take."

"Oh, that." House paused, allowing himself chance to cast his mind back to the event. "Yeah, I must've skipped that to go to the graduation party."

Cameron sighed. "Well, there's a surprise…"

At that moment, Ryuzaki slouched into the office, closing the door behind him and taking his position in an empty chair. With barely a word at 8:45am, the detective had clocked in and was ready for the day's work. Wiggling slightly in his crouch to get comfortable, and the cap-and-mask ensemble still covering much of his face, he spoke out loud what they all seemed to be thinking. "When you had finally concluded that he indeed does not have Schizophrenia, can we please cross it off the board and get back onto actually investigating and treating his illness?"

Most everyone else conceded and nodded their heads, save for Foreman. Knowing that it had been his suggestion that had caused the dystonic side effects in their patient, it was no surprise that Pride and Principle had prevented him from nodding along and moving on like the rest.

Knowing he had done wrong was one thing, but admitting openly to it, owning his mistake, that was something else entirely, and so it was for this reason that, sighing, he picked up a wipe board marker and crossed off himself _Schizophrenia – possibly Paranoid type (needs delusions and hallucinations for confirmation)_. He just had to do it himself, despite House's glare of daggers into his face for using the marker. He had to recognise his mistake, recognise that he was becoming his own worst enemy, becoming his boss.

Once Foreman had put down the marker, House cleared his throat and continued. "Now that that's settled, we're just about left with Schizoaffective disorder, Bipolar disorder, and Borderline personality disorder. Cameron," the only one with non-dangling genitalia in the room looked up, "you be there for when the kid wakes up. When he does, you stick to him like _The Good Old Shawshank Family's Extra Strength Adhesive_™. The rest of you are on schedule for some good ol' fashioned doctoring. The day job." The team moved out, keeping themselves decidedly busy and off radar.

"And will you be doing any doctoring today?" Ryuzaki asked, tipping his head enquiringly, "Because according to your schedule, you are due for some clinic duty today."

"Nah…" House shook his head, "I won't be doing that. The kid's too unstable. I turn around and he's doing the Thorazine shuffle. The next thing I know, he'll have acute lead poisoning or something like that. No, best to stay here and wait for the inevitable.

Ryuzaki didn't answer to begin with, just merely looked at him from behind his mask. After a full minute he replied. "Just from that," he said, his voice aloof, "I can see why keeping you employed here is such a strain on everyone else; your methods aren't suited to doctoring at all." With that, he left, deciding it better to keep himself busy with his investigation elsewhere rather than stay in the doctor's presence any longer.

House ignored the statement. After all, if the detective was right, then he technically wasn't doctor material, and nor was it his job to listen to people.

* * *

By 1pm, Light had awoken from his forced sleep worse than ever. He was much quieter, of course, than yesterday, but the Thorazine ordeal had worn him out, and he was much less responsive. His spirits seemed to have taken a sudden downturn, and he remained silent, even as his family left to eat and take care of private matters. Under his eyes, purple bruises remained – a reminder of the pain-filled sleepless night before.

Cameron had no choice then but to sit, wait, and be there for him when he talked – what else could she do? The young man, though still a danger at the best of times, was enough down the road of a depressive episode that he couldn't (or at least wouldn't) cause harm, but not enough that he wouldn't sit and wait for the opportunity, if he was still looking for it.

"Are you all right?" she asked, finally deciding to initiate conversation, if just to relieve the build-up of tedium that came with the silence.

"… I… think… so…" he whispered, his voice hoarse, his responses delayed somewhat. "Not quite sure."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I'm not usually this…" he looked down at himself, as though not quite sure what to think without the reference. "Insanitary." He decided, no smile spared for a well found euphemism. He was probably right: the sweat that had covered him earlier had dried, and his shoulder-length hair was mussed, unkempt. He looked positively uncomfortable, almost embarrassed by his current state of uncleanliness. No, he looked downright stressed, as though the very thought of being even remotely dirty was killing him, filling him with an incurable anxiety.

_A sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? He does seem to have an obsessive personality, if anyone did, although his general mental health may have distorted that. According to his notes, his mother is the same way, and these disorders are often congenital._

"Well, if you like," Cameron answered, a well-meaning smile on her face, "you could visit the patients' bathroom. There's a shower you could use, if you'd like."

Light glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, managing a small, restrained, if forced smile as he whispered, "Yes, I'd like that."

_Yes, he's most definitely inherited OCD._

She stood up to get out the wheelchair from the corner, only to stop when she caught his halting gesture. "No," he said, "I can walk, it's fine."

The doctor sighed. The bathroom wasn't a mere few feet around the corner. No, more like a few corridors. She didn't think him able to cope in his weakened state, didn't think that his untested legs could walk for long without stumbling along the way.

Nonetheless, he certainly tried. With his arms extended slightly out for balance and precaution, he began to walk forward, his steps slow, narrow and stiff. He seemed to notice the changed gait, for he frowned, an expression of hatred at his weakness and almost defiance in light of it. Letting his arms drop slowly to his side completely, he continued to walk towards the door, the Thorazine's most famous side effect forcing his limbs to resist, giving him that characteristic shuffle.

More effort later, and after picking up a bag of his shower things, Cameron and Light were on the corridor, the teen shuffling in silence, only paying attention to the people that passed them, the sort that usually wandered the hospital in the early afternoon. Nurses, patients, families on visits, small children toddling about on their parent's short leashes. The latter, she noticed, Light took a particular interest in, especially the younger ones. His eyes, which only shone momentarily red for each one, would follow their joyous play, and he would smile in amusement as they caught his stares, each returning it with innocent curiosity. One child pointed at him, tugging at his mother's skirt for her to spot him too, and yet another marched up to walk right alongside him, imitating with glee the young man's shuffling gait. While he probably would've responded with violence to anyone else's attempts at such slights, he merely smiled now and stuck his hands in his pockets, making an effort to affect his walk yet more, giving the child the entertainment she's sought for.

When the child finally left, pulled away by her apologetic mother, Cameron turned to Light, watching the smile fade from his lips, and his shoulders slump slightly. He was no longer acquired to entertain. Turning a corner, and walking onto an empty corridor, she asked, "Do you like children?"

He thought about that for a moment. "I suppose so," he finally answered. "I have a younger sister, so I do know how to handle children. I know what they like to see from adults, when they want a smile, what their baby talk means, to a degree…" He trailed off, decidedly pensive.

Cameron smiled back, "That's not what I meant. What I mean is, do you like children? Liking them in general and showing them love, and knowing how to take care of one are two different things. Like… would you have children of your own someday? Would you be interested in having a family one day?"

Light returned that with something of a wide-eyed yet questioning glare. "I know you have a thing for being able to mother your partners, but I think our ages and social statuses might cause a bit of a stir."

She sighed. "Please just answer the question, will you?" She didn't even bother saying anything against his almost derisive joke, knowing that, however he'd done it, he'd still found the truth.

Rolling his eyes, as though his answer had only ever been a light joke, he answered. "While it is only natural for me to have a family of my own one day, I don't see that happening until I'm at least married with an established career and a steady income. I wouldn't endanger any family of mine like that."

_Only 'natural' for him? That response was probably practiced, like he knows exactly what social norms he's expected to perpetuate. Like he told me yesterday, he's been hiding his real feelings for a long time, so this 'society expects, I deliver' attitude must be part of that._

For probably not the only time, she was glad that she'd been bugged by Ryuzaki, that her bug in her lab coat collar was recording the conversation. If this conversation disturbed the others as it did her, then it would be the sort of thing House and Ryuzaki needed to perpetuate the case.

"You still haven't answered the first question." Cameron sighed, shaking her head with mock annoyance.

"You mean about children? Well… they're innocent."

"Innocent?"

"They haven't done anything wrong, nothing at all. What more could you want?" Cameron didn't know what to think about that, except that, if he really believed he was Kira, that would be the very same response you could expect from him with that in mind. Light noticed the silence growing, and continued. "Let me explain. It's all to do with these." At this, he gave a showman's wink, indicating his eyes. "You've seen how they work, how I saw Dr House and knew what sins he'd committed. With children, especially those from a very young age, I can't find that. There's no sin, no knowledge of wrong in their hearts: They are Kira's perfect specimens of humanity, if ever they existed."

Cameron, once again, couldn't think of anything to say to that response, and so she didn't, not even thinking to ask what he meant by that statement. This was typical Kira thinking, as she could now identify, after all. Kira loves justice, Kira loves the innocent, Kira loves children.

By that end, Cameron had spotted the patients' bathroom and began leading him to it, opening the door of the empty wash room for him to enter. The room small and furnished with a toilet, a shower and a sink, he stood in the middle of it, turning to face her and give a look that was easy to understand. "May I have some privacy?" he asked, all joviality gone, replaced with irritation that she had been about to enter, that she'd assumed that she needed to observe what to him must be the most private aspect of all his life.

"I'll be outside the door if you need me." She answered, and passing his bathroom necessities to him, she shut the door and let him get on with the business of cleaning himself. Glad that it had been fitted with an inside lock, she stood sentry outside it, waiting for him to finish, sure that the Thorazine's effects would make it difficult to do nothing more than stand in the shower stream and let the water run. Actively cleaning oneself would be impossible.

Barely minutes later, Chase passed by, followed closely by Dr Morning, O.D, who pushed the trolley of surgical equipment in front of him. Chase caught her eye, motioned for Morning to wait, and came up to her, giving a slight wave of the hand in salutation. Decked out in his surgical scrubs, as Morning was, he looked almost endearing to her, like a flash of life, the portrait of the scholarly boy and the vision of the man he would become all wrapped into one blond Australian package.

She probably wouldn't have thought those things about him, had he not readily possessed such a potent amount of boyish charm.

"So, what are you doing here?" He asked, his head tilted quizzically, "I thought you were babysitting the Ripper right now."

"I am," she replied, "he's using the facilities in here," she pointed to the door beside her, "so I'm here in case the Thorazine kicks in, or he needs me at all."

Chase smiled in an almost loving manner. "House is right, after all these years. You really are a do-gooder."

"That's what I'm here for." She smiled back.

"True, still…" his expression hardened slightly, serious now. "Are you any closer to diagnosing him?"

She sighed, and thought for a moment. "No, not really. I've found some things out, though."

"Like?"

"While not in his manic state, he seems to most definitely have a case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which we'll have to monitor first. What's more, he told me that he loves children."

Chase nearly choked. "W-what?" he spluttered, "Are you saying he's a-"

"No." She threw him a disgusted look. "Of course not. What I mean is, even when he's not manic – when he's not Kira, I suppose – he's still got Kira's ideals in mind, somewhere. When I said he loves children, I meant that he's into the whole 'children are innocent, so emulate them' thing."

Chase gave a slow nod in understanding, although he still didn't seem to understand – his face bore an expression of confusion. "That sounds so sweet it could only be Kira talking. So, even though he doesn't want to be Kira in this state, he still thinks like Kira?"

"I suppose you could say that."

He shook his head. "This is more confusing than ever. Talk about sending mixed signals. It's almost bipolar, the way's he's working – one moment he acts like Kira and is baying for House's blood, the next he wants out of the Kira business, but on the condition we let him kill House if we fail, and then, in the non-Kira stage, he still thinks likes Kira. At this rate, we may as well let him have House now."

"Really?" asked Cameron, "But wouldn't we miss the little annoyances that we love so much?"

Chase sighed, emitting a smile. "You're right. We should've let him die sooner." That thought, strange though it was, sparked within them, and the next thing they knew they were laughing without restraint, laughing at a joke that they didn't know the beginning of, let alone the punch line.

Finally the laughter died, and they were smiling at each other almost dumbly, ignoring everyone else, even Dr Morning, who was still waiting for Chase to tear himself away – and yet he didn't. He was too attached to Cameron's side to care that he was needed in a theatre elsewhere. They were just staring into each other's eyes, stuck in a little pocket of eternity, a tiny space in continuum that was their own, that just…

Crash

…shattered there and then. Cameron jumped, turning to identify the location of the crash, finding herself facing the bathroom door. _No. What has he done now?_

"What was that?" Chase asked, his voice hushed, his eyes wide. Cameron didn't answer him, not straightaway. She opened the door instead, as loud as she could care, not allowing herself to think first of what she might see within, even though she knew it wouldn't be good, wouldn't be typical.

If Light fell, it would be with a heavy force, from a powerful influence stranger than a dizzy spell. That's just what he's like. He's too proud, too strong for anything less.

No time to think. She rushed in, and it was only until she was over the threshold that she dared look down (for he wasn't stood up), blocking out the continued gurgling for the moment, focusing on the coughs, the splutters, the moans of pain.

Light was on the floor, all right. Laid on his side and facing her, curled almost into a ball, he emitted low moans of pain; his hands not flopped out to the side, nor bent as though broken, but clutching at his stomach. She bent down to his side, turning his face as gently as she could to hers, trying not to react unnecessarily at the sight of it. His face was completely drained of colour now, save for a slight green shade of nausea. He was shivering, his eyes closed and screwed up, his teeth gritted and threatening to chatter. His lips weren't the washed out pale shade she would expected to see of a person in this state. Instead they were, especially at the corners, red, almost as though caustically blistered, she would've said.

"Look at this." Chase said. He was standing by the sink, holding up the source of the gurgling sound – a white bottle with a label she could never have believed to be there, could she not see it with her own eyes.

Bleach. Of all the products to find under the sink…

"No…" she whispered. What was going on? Why did he suddenly do that, out of nowhere, with no warning?

The questions must have taken over her focus, for it was only with the call of a stranger's voice that she snapped out of it, turning her attention to the source. Stood in the doorway, having pushed past Morning, was an adolescent Goth. His eyes as purple as his hair, and both of them lined heavily in black, his clothes completely black and rugged, he looked every bit the meddlesome kid he was, had his deviant image not been broken by the Starbucks™ takeaway coffee cup in his hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his tone exasperated at having had to repeat himself. "Don't doctors here know how to act in emergencies, or do only the Triage nurses know that much?" His voice was of an aloof, British quality, and would've sounded familiar had it not come with a natural growl.

When none of the doctors answered him straightaway, he sighed, stepped into the cramped bathroom and pushed Cameron aside without a care. "He's drunken bleach, you idiots, and his insides will have been burned to bloody _shit_ by the time any of you do anything about it!"

Unapologetic, he took the lid off the coffee cup, and placed it under Light's nose. "It's milk." The stranger elaborated, before forcing Light's mouth to open as he tipped the liquid to meet his lips. "It'll neutralise enough of the chemical to prevent further damage until you get proper treatment." The short explanation seemed to satisfy, for Light lifted his head slightly to allow himself to drink.

Once the milk had been drained, the Goth stood up, throwing the cup to one side over his shoulder, letting it become litter just like that. "In case he ever sees me again," he growled, "tell him he's in debt to me. Tell him he owes me $4.50 for the milk and his phone number, got that?" Without even waiting for an affirmative, he walked back down the corridor from whence he came, like a guardian angel bearing the _latans ex machina _had any right to.

Light's eyes were half-open now and rubied, and yet devoid of any malevolence that may have once been associated with that state. Rather, they held barely anything, like the eyes of a man who'd resigned himself. "…Shinitai…" he whispered, teeth no longer chattering.

Chase ignored the words, acting as though he'd never heard them, dropping the bottle and, standing by his head, began pulling him to his feet, grabbing hold of him under his arms. "We're going to treat you," he said to him, meaning to inform and reassure, "you're not going to die on us today, whatever that guy said." Cameron stood up with him, ready to help at any point. Chase's words obviously hitting home, Light shook his head, struggling against the surgeon's hold on him, his voice hoarse and barely fit to communicate his protests, none of which they couldn't understand.

"Yamete, shinitai yo!" he tried to yell, his voice seeming to tear as he struggled even harder against Chase and Cameron, "Ima, Shinasete kudasai! Shinasete kudasai!"

Dr Morning abandoned his trolley to join the struggle, aiding the situation by pinning the young man's thrashing arms to his sides. It didn't work. Light's body suddenly stopped struggling, tensed up, and he retched, vomiting without warning down the older doctor's front.

"Urgh!" Dr Morning grimaced, unable to show anything but disgust at the puke that drenched his surgical scrubs, barely noticing the patient's coughs and splutter's, or even that some of the liquid had splattered his sweater as well. "I can't believe it!" the doctor muttered. "It's Harvard Med all over again!" With that, he walked away, leaving the trolley, Chase and Cameron to sort himself out, and for the two diagnosticians to sort out Light themselves.

After that, he stopped struggling, as though all the fight had left him, just like that. The colour even seemed to be returning to his face, slightly. Hoping that this was a good sign, Cameron began to do the motherly part of her doctoral duty, making to take off the soiled sweater before the cloying stench of it could stick to him. "Come on," she hushed, "I'm just going to take this sweater off you, okay?"

Light did nothing to respond, and as Cameron pushed down the lid of the toilet and Chase sat the boy on there, she pulled it up, only stopping as Light's hands got in the way, objecting to the stripping.

It was too late for him. Cameron could already well see what was underneath, and now she half-wished she hadn't, if just to prevent that question from entering her mind. _How… how could he do that to himself?_

She had every right to ask, to be scared: On his abdomen, up his chest, even on his arms, she supposed, were scars – deep, white ones, cut into the flesh to resemble a voodoo doll's rough patchwork markings.

If she was right, and right now she didn't want to be, then drinking the bleach wasn't the first time he'd hurt himself, wasn't the first time this patient had resorted to mutilation.

_A manic episode, if combined with depression (as in a mixed episode) will cause disastrous consequences, of course: Depression combined with the racing thoughts and heightened energy levels of mania… you can be sure of the capabilities that this patient would have, of the final result he could wrought. Racing thoughts would seek for opportunity, and with opportunity comes this:_

_Suicide. _

* * *

**If you didn't read the author note at the top, then go up and read it right now. It's really important that you do for the rest of this fic – also, if you miss out on the news of my new crossover fic and don't know anything about it, then you may find yourself missing out on something good (perhaps even great). **

**For those of you who didn't, then you have been warned and you'll be well prepared. What I loved about this chapter especially is that not only is it a big plot point in this fic, but it's also one that I've wanted to write for ages, hence the long wait for it (I did want to do this one right, after all). Funnily enough, this is one with probably the most House references and grossness. Yay… If you understand any of the references or the naughty jokes, you may as well just let me know, whether you need them explaining or not.**

**Just as one more note before I end this note, I have made slight changes to chapters 3 and 4, which will help a little for the understanding of this fic. For those of you who have read my fic 'Fame Less Than Infamy', then you'll be happy to note that the first chapter has been edited and improved dramatically, and the next chapter is in the process of being written and edited. **

**Please R&R, and do stay tuned for chapter 9, when it comes. **


	9. Demons

**A/N: Here you are, another chapter of AoSI: R! I know this one is a long wait, but to tell the truth, I'm kind of working on spontaneity right now (the plans are very vague at around this part), but then again, I'm still with it enough to note the slight irony at the speech Light made in chapter 3 and the events of chapter 8. If you can spot it, you get a prize. **

**For the most part, I've been working on the new crossover that I mentioned in the Author's Note of last chapter. It's a crossover of Death Note and House of Night, and already it has eleven chapters! It's fully planned, too, so I know exactly how it's going to go (unlike with this one). While I'm gonna try and have that crossover (named 'NoHoper', if you want to read it) finished before the end of December, this one will take a little longer than that, sorry. What's more, I've been daydreaming too much about the sequel I'm planning, but that won't be around until I've finished all of my current fics, of course (sort of like a first generation and second generation thing).**

**I'm rambling again, so do just enjoy this new chapter of AoSI: R! **

* * *

Chapter IX

Demons

September 8th 2006

Day 3

He hadn't noticed it until now, but he was… cold. Bitterly cold.

In and of itself, that should've been strange and alarming, but he couldn't bring himself to react or even show a reaction, not at all. He could barely move an inch; he could barely speak for soreness; his limbs weakened far beyond manageable capacity. There was much he wanted to do right now: Destroy the camera being thrust in his face; demand clothing; even scratch his nose, but he couldn't summon the strength for anything, practically imprisoned.

He was on that spiral again, the one that ended at the bottom of the abyss, the oubliette with a secret window open, letting in the light. He'd crawl through it, suddenly gaining the energy to run, energy he squandered on himself to bad ends.

But… he wasn't at that point yet. The hands were still passing him down to the bottom, squeezing at his neck, his wrists, only to hand him the tools of destruction. He'd tried to resist that first time, but no longer. Even if an effort was made to fight, it was amazing how no one noticed the change that would beset him, the way never thought to ask after him during those dark times…

…No, why think that? It's not surprising at all. His masks are usually so good, so deceptive, or were… until they shattered and broke.

Earlier… (Was it really yesterday? The days were beginning to overlap…) he was in a different kind of oubliette, one that spun out of control, where the energy stabbed into him and he wanted to reel in confusion. The darkness was still there, and the thoughts remained, spinning and weaving, crushing and flowing.

_Why do you go on living like this? You're a nuisance to the world! What right have you to save it?_

_Go ahead, no one will mind. Mother… Father… This is destroying them; you can see it in their eyes. The way they look at you, the way they look at each other. If you don't, then they will, you know that for sure._

_What's wrong? She won't know, she won't stop you; she won't even be there until it's too late to stop!_

_This world doesn't deserve you, doesn't deserve your intellect, your strength, your martyrdom. _

_Just do it already! It's quick, simple, clean! Even Father could do it, and he's already been crushed into a coward by the system!_

_Don't let them do that to you! You'll be next!_

_Do the world a favour._

"_I want to die." _He'd said. He'd struggled against the doctors while he'd yelled. _"Stop it, I want to die! Now, let me die! Let me die!" _It didn't even seem real that he'd said those things, when he looked back on them. The only real part was that clear feeling, that raw, true need to leave life and reality behind, to end it there and then. He'd felt ready to end it then, as ready as the voices insisted he was.

For a long time in that bathroom, he'd pressed his hands to the side of his head, letting the nails dig into his skull, feeling the excess energy shudder and quake his bones. He'd done it then, took the advice; drunk the bleach like it couldn't wait.

Now he was weak, too weak, robbed of so many things, robbed in so many ways. He'd been treated properly after the anagoritic discovery, and held up by a nurse and his crying mother as they'd scrubbed him down in the patient's shower, in a different bathroom. He didn't feel properly clean afterward but, like an invalid, he was taken back to his room, and he'd lain there ever since… catatonic… slow of thought… cold… unaware of his parents and sister who'd fussed over him, horrified, able to see every scar he'd hidden from them, every etching.

He never wanted this to happen, never wanted them to find out, to worry over him, never. But… now… there was nothing he could do now… they knew… they were crying, asking the same questions over and over again, _Why? _The scenes just blurred in front of his eyes, like they didn't want to keep still, eluding him of the full picture like selective nystagmus.

For all his wants, all the secrets… he didn't cry with them, wasn't moved by the tears. He knew it already, the sights he was used to. This feeling, he was used to it, too. This cold, this feeling of filthiness, this self-hate, this… boredom?

Boredom? Yes… was that why he was so cold?

That was a come down. But true.

The cold was inside, no matter how little he was wearing.

Cold.

* * *

"You idiot!" House's voice bellowed, echoing throughout the office and down the corridor through the open glass door. "I specifically told you to keep an eye on a dangerous, violent manic depressive, and what do you do? You take your eyes off him!"

Cameron shifted with discomfort in her seat. She didn't know whether it was because of the incident itself, or the fact that no one thought to tell him until nearly 24 hours after all the excitement, but House was pissed. Usually when disaster hits the patient, he has naught but a mild interest and a cutting comment to spare, but not this time: The time, he'd flipped… he'd flipped big time.

"Tell me, when you left him in a bathroom all by himself, did you really think that he wouldn't come to harm at all? Did you really think that a handful of genius brains, a little ingenuity and a whole lot of mania would get in the way of him dunking his own head down the toilet, or breathing water, or finding the Drano® under the sink?" He made a noise of disgust, refusing to look at her. "And I thought you were humanitarian!"

A silence grew and settled for a few minutes before anyone thought to respond. "What's wrong?" Chase asked, standing straight from his leaning position against the wall, "Light's safe, right? This was going to happen sooner or later, and it just so happened that he took the opportunity sooner than we expected. Now that he's done this, we know for sure the episodes aren't purely manic, but depressive as well. It means that if he has Schizoaffective Disorder, then he's most likely the bipolar type, and if he has Bipolar Disorder, then we can consider it a mixed affective episode, and-"

"Shut it, Crocodile Dundee! That's not the important thing right now!"

Chase scowled, saying nothing of the insult, "Then, what is? That he remains alive long enough for you to solve the case and screw what happens after? That you sooth your Rubik's Complex and get an ego stroke for a job well done? Is that it?"

"YES!"

The room fell silent once again as the echoes of his declaration bounced against the wall, all unsure of how to respond.

"My life is on the line with this deal." House continued. "Either I diagnose the kid in time and we all go home happy and alive, or I fail and I die. There is no Plan C – that wasn't part of the agreement. Besides, he tried to strangle me to death, and I'm not going to let that slide."

"So you don't care if he kills himself?" Cameron asked.

"Weren't you listening? Of course I do – I'm just not going to hug him to sleep after a long day of physical self-pity and _deep bleeding_, like you would!" He glared at her pointedly, probably imagining her doing that very thing.

"Speaking of…" began Foreman, "where's Light right now?" Cameron looked over to him as he spoke, noting the concern in his eyes. Call it woman's intuition, but she could understand why it would be him who would ask after the boy like that: After the Thorazine incident, after the shuffle it produced and the incident that followed, she was sure he was feeling responsible for it, sure that he'd try to make it up to Light, if he could.

"He's in his room right now, still recovering." Cameron answered. She'd seen him there not long before, and knew he'd still be weak after the come down from the mixed episode and the gastric lavage.

"Right," Foreman nodded. "I'll take over the watch." He made to leave, but Cameron stopped him before he could.

"In case you haven't heard," Cameron told him, speaking more to the whole room that Foreman exclusively, "I have reason to believe that the bleach incident isn't the first time Light's attempted suicide or resorted to self-harm." Foreman's eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly, as did the rest of the team. "He's covered in deep scars, all of them self-inflicted, no doubt. We need pictures of them to confirm. Can you do that?" She addressed the last part to Foreman alone, and he nodded, making a note to find Cuddy and borrow her expensive administrator-salary-bought camera.

With both instruction and admittance he left, unsure of what to make of the news. It was unsettling to say the least, but… he sighed. This ran further than any of them imagined. These scars were specified as being _deep_, probably deeper than typical self-inflicted scars. If these scars didn't just cover the wrists, if Light's parents and sister hadn't been aware of it before, then this had to have been going on for a much longer time than six months ago, longer by a whole year, at least.

Things just got complicated now.

* * *

The camera in hand, Foreman wasn't sure what to make of the scene in the boy's room when he got there. His parent were sitting by again, whispering under their breaths in Japanese to one another, their eyes bloodshot with tears and worry – something he'd seen before in the faces of every parent that passed through the hospital, through their team's care, and he'd seen that every day.

Sayu, the well-meaning sister, wasn't there. She'd probably gone to buy something to eat from the cafeteria, or perhaps to eat at whatever residence the family used when visitor times were over… the nearby hotel, maybe? _Maybe she's gone to get her cap back from Ryuzaki or something… _he thought, letting the idea drift away as quickly as it came.

Light, on the other hand, was a completely different story altogether.

He lay on his bed in an almost catatonic state, looking as though he'd barely moved since he was put there. He was half-naked and skinny, dressed only in boxer shorts, his hair damp and his limbs practically lolling on the bed, like there was no strength left to put them in a more comfortable position, no strength to even move, like atrophy. He looked asleep, but Foreman doubted he was at all; his eyes, bruised purple beneath them still, were half-closed, and the rise and fall of his chest was slightly too fast to signify even a deep sleep. His whole manner, in short, was like a lizard basking in the heat, trying to store energy and warm up his cold blood.

Foreman decidedly abandoned the metaphor – it made the boy sound like he was waiting for the next opportunity, for the next big bout of mania to try again, and for all he knew, he was.

Foreman walked to stand by the bed, not bothering to announce himself as he took the digital camera out of his lab coat pocket. Focusing harder on the patient, it was only then that it registered what he was presented with, what he should've noticed right away.

Scars. Pale, deep, atrophic scars. They were almost cosmetic in appearance, as though they'd been cut in purely for the voodoo patch work effect, like a tribe initiation in the form of scarification. They marked out patches like that, starting with the rough ring around the neck (or rather, the collar bone area) and made a slow way down the rest of the body, covering the chest, the arms, the torso, even the legs.

The strangest ones were the slightly lighter scar across the top of his left arm and, in particular, an almost vertical cut in the middle of one patch, lying calculatingly right over the heart. It didn't seem to have been part of the pattern, but rather etched in as an after-thought, like it was there on an impulse, maybe even for a purpose. They didn't seem to cover any of the inner-wrist area synonymous with self-harm, but he was sure that there would be some on his back, that they were there for the same reason…

That is, unless there was a gang involved, and there had been an initiation involved as well. This boy was more than intelligent enough to hide it, and he had the ability to hide everything else. It would explain his violent tendencies and skills, his hatred, maybe even his illness? Illnesses such as Schizoaffective Disorder and Bipolar Disorder were often the result or part of previous acts of substance abuse, especially where recreational drugs were concerned.

No… that theory couldn't fit before it was even thought up: Light was against any and all forms of criminality; he'd hate the thought of even being involved in a gang at all. For him, that would be reprehensible, and that was without involving narcotics.

As he placed the camera in front of his face, he began to work the zoom function, pausing only as Light's head jerked slightly, eyes now looking up at him. "I'm sorry, Light." Foreman whispered to him, reading a look of apprehension on his face, "these are for Dr House." While Light said nothing to him, merely giving another jerk to signify a nod, Foreman started snapping photographs, only pausing to take the first one again as red light marred the image.

* * *

His parents gone once again and his sister with them, the watch over Light resumed with Foreman at the helm, sitting in a corner of the room where he couldn't miss anything. For the longest time, Light didn't move from the first position, only ever moved manually during the photo shoot, when Foreman had needed to check his inner wrists and his back for any scarring. Currently, these photos were being printed off a spare printer by Dora, who was to send them up to House the minute they were done, and give the camera back to Cuddy as soon as she could afterwards.

By the turn of high noon, at 3pm, Light had recovered enough strength to sit himself up in bed, a blanket pulled up to his middle and a t-shirt spared to cover the scars, though the scars on the arms remained on view. He'd even begun reading a book, presumably having finished reading _Carrie _that first evening, before the late-night dosage of Thorazine.

Cameron was to come over soon, an idea cooked up before the start of the watch. She was to bring Dr Morning with her, to assist in the uncovering of a new theory. It had become something of a plan or a mission, but whether or not Light had discovered it yet was yet to be seen. He was intuitive, of course, but he was still weak, and he'd currently been spending his waking hours reading, keeping himself to himself for the most part. It he knew anything, then he wasn't going to let them know.

He was, of course, on a different side of the field to the one the doctors were currently playing on, and with a current team count of five against one (including Dr Morning and not counting third-party influences who all seemed to pick House's team, including Ryuzaki), Foreman had to assume that Light had some method he used during the playing of this particular game that kept him winning thus far (if it was to be believed that he really had played this before with other doctors at other hospitals).

Considering that this was the 52nd hospital involved in the treatment of Light, that Light had set the time limit for one week and there had so far been far less than 52 weeks of game play from first being hospitalised in Japan to right now in New Jersey, Foreman would also have to believe that, in other hospitals, there was a cut-off point around the middle of the week, where Light would – by some assumed breaking of a rule or something – claim victory and subsequently move on to the next institution.

If all this was true (and there was no actual reason to convince him it wasn't) then the cut-off point may come today or tomorrow, and until they knew what would trigger it – whether it was the breaking of an unknown rule or something else – they wouldn't know how to prevent it.

While he had mentioned the game theory to Cameron before, she had only this to say: "Light has some particularly strong feelings against House, and House is well-known in the medical community nation-wide for both his abilities and his flaws. If your Game Theory is right, then House must be the Ultimate Boss on the current level of game play. With all this in mind, do you really think he would miss out the opportunity to beat House properly and – as he put it – kill him, thus defeating the boss and gaining more Exp. points? Plus, if you add that to House's need to solve this case and beat Light himself, do you really think he'd let there even be a cut-off point? I wouldn't worry about it. Your 'cut-off point' may just be the fact that many hospitals refused to treat him, and put him in a strait jacket instead. If you've come up with this theory yourself, then you can bet that both House and Ryuzaki both considered it at some point and not told us yet, or have already refuted it. Believe me, we're safe."

Foreman wasn't sure whether or not that course of action was safe, all things considered. The logic was sound, however, and he'd have to suggest it to House before they try anything with it. In the meantime, all they can do is try and come up with the rules that Light is working with and prove them, or at least try and get them from the horse's mouth.

That theory had to wait, though, in favour of a different one, one that already had evidence to back it up – evidence that was literally etched into the patient's skin. So far, it only had a working title: 'Nozik's Theory of Experience'. (While neither Foreman nor Cameron particularly loved how the title implied that the theory was never theirs, it certainly had a good ring to it).

The theory stated that people who self-harmed had a reason for it, and therefore anyone who had done it must have either done it before, or be prepared to do it again, or both. How did it fit in with Light? With the idea that if a teenager decides to drink bleach for the sole purpose of killing himself, he must have had previous experiences with the feelings that caused it enough to have done it before, and not just with bleach. It also suggested that, in all likelihood, he would do it again.

All they needed now was the reasons, the feelings it caused, how many times before. That's why Cameron was joining them: If there was anyone who could get that information, information that not even his mother knew, it would be her. As for Dr Morning, he probably wanted to come to choke the neck of the kid who'd puked on him – either that or thank him for thusly preventing the death or another ten year old who would have otherwise died under Dr Morning's unsteady hand.

It was then at a little after 3pm that Cameron and Morning arrived, Cameron armed with a little A4-sized wipe board and one of House's many board markers, and a pad of paper with a pen. While Foreman wasn't sure if the bug was on their sleeves (he definitely knew there was one on his) or that women's intuition was at work here, he was sure she knew something he didn't, and it wouldn't be for the first time.

When she'd entered the room, she'd turned to the bed and smiled at Light, giving him a cheerful "Good afternoon." Light merely looked up from his book, returned the smile and nodded. Dr Morning, meanwhile, with Cuddy's camera in hand, took up a seat by the bed and didn't say anything, just proceeded to stare at him and watch as Light returned the stare, his eyes red as they probed him the same way they'd probed Foreman and Cameron. Morning smiled as the rubies glared in his direction, and took a picture there and then with the flash on before they could turn brown again. Foreman shuddered inwardly then, remembering that feeling of intrusion he'd felt that first time, the same one that he was learning to ignore.

Light blinked over and over, recovering from the sudden flash, his eyes brown once more. Although Cameron had given Morning a dirty look for that picture, she said nothing about it, and no one acknowledged it. "So, how are you feeling today, Light?" She asked, keeping her smiles natural and easy.

He shrugged his shoulders and returned to his book, but Morning snatched it away, turning over the corner of the latest page and keeping it in his hands where Light couldn't reach. He looked understandably mad about the filching and creasing, especially at the creasing, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to Cameron in time to hear another one of her questions.

"Are you enjoying your book?" Light rolled his eyes at her, then gave a decided nod. Cameron nodded back, then came to sit in the other chair by the bed. She waited for a proper reply, but when none came, she asked another question. "I might read it myself, when I have some spare time. What is it called? What's it about?" Light made to point to the book, as though to ask Morning to show her, for her to find out for herself, but Morning saw the gesture first. Taking hold of the book, he dropped it on the floor and kicked it, watching with interest as it slid under the bed and out of everyone's reach.

Light looked furious. He even bared his teeth at Morning, making his feelings as well-known as Morning did by smiling like it was a barrel of laughs to be had. Foreman could imagine what message Light was getting from Morning through the look. It was as though he said, _"What are you going to do about it, huh? There's a crease on a page, and it's all dusty. You're going to enjoy stressing out over that, aren't you, Mr OCD?"_

"I'm waiting to find out. I can't wait to read it when I do." Cameron reminded him, her tone genial but her meaning so clear: _"What are you waiting for? You're taking your sweet time. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"_

Foreman didn't know what to say or do. This method was so unlike her to use, so unethical, much more suited to House. And – if he was right about the situation – very, very sick.

"You heard the nice doctor." Morning said, finally opening his mouth. He had a Southern accent, like he'd grown up with Tom Robinson on the outskirts of Maycomb, and a deep, steady tone. "Tell her about your book. What's it called? Who are the main characters? What's the genre?" Light's glare had deepened, and he was all but growling at him, his body tense with anger.

"What's wrong?" Cameron asked innocently, "I'm just trying to make conversation. If you want to keep your book secret then I won't ask." She gave a sigh, "You know, I prefer talking to people who talk back."

"You're very rude!" Morning exclaimed, "She's only trying to be nice! You've hurt her feelings, too! Can't you speak English?"

It was like parents talking to a young child like he was simple. It was taunting, at the very least.

"How about if I go and tell your mother what an awful, rotten little boy she dragged up?" Cameron asked. It was as though her entire personality had changed, as though she was speaking to House and not a patient. "Oh dear, so violent and anti-social – I bet she'll be glad to know she's brought up a _criminal!_"

That did it. He snapped, yelling at her and Morning in a short string of incoherent growls. It didn't last long, and he began to cough, a hand over his mouth and the other at his throat. His eyes were tearing up, and Cameron began to shush him. "It's okay," she said, her natural warmth back where it belonged, "don't strain yourself like that. Open your mouth." He did on command, and she continued talking as she examined inside his mouth. "I'm very sorry we had to do that. We had to know if there was any lasting damage. I knew you wouldn't talk to us right away, if you could, but we needed to know quickly, and it depended on you being distracted enough not to try and work out what we were thinking, otherwise you might never have tried to talk. You'd have had us talking like that for a while if you knew why we were provoking you."

Cameron was right: He hadn't seen Light's eyes go red once during the actual spiel – he'd been provoked the entire time, definitely too distracted for it. The look on Light's face showed he'd realised it too, revealing a sort of amazement at this outsmarting from doctors. That must have been embarrassing.

"Yes," Cameron said, "there's definitely been some damage. While it's not as bad as it could have been, it'll no less be painful to talk for a while." Light nodded in agreement as she allowed him to close his mouth. "That's why we've brought these for you." She pointed to the wipe board, paper and pens lying on the corner of the bed, then handed him the wipe board and the marker. "I've had to give you one of Dr House's markers. He'll miss it, but there weren't any other on hand."

Taking it in, Light bent his head as he began to write on the A4-sized board. What resulted when he straightened up and showed everyone the contents was a single word written in a neat script in black. _**Good.**_

Foreman shuffled his chair closer to sit by the bed beside Cameron, as she read out the word for the benefit of the bug in her sleeve and the feed to House and Ryuzaki's computers, suppressing a laugh. If he was asked to write a lot, then he would have to write smaller than he usually did, and if Foreman wanted to communicate properly with him, then getting close enough to see would be best.

With a paper napkin handed to him by Cameron, he rubbed out the words and began writing again. Soon the message came back as _**I suppose you want to ask me some questions now, right? **_

"Yes, and I'll ask the first one, if no one minds." Answered Cameron. Giving a friendly smile, she went on, "What do you think of Dr House?"

Light returned the smile as he wrote; _**I think he's more concerned about 'solving' me that helping me get well. He's well-respected, but only because people are scared to be near him. A man who rules with fear rather than understanding shouldn't be allowed such a high position of power in a hospital. **_

Cameron read it out, then asked again, "I mean, what do you think of him _personally?_"

Light rubbed out, and wrote. **His being alive is a problem. He's the best sacrifice for when I succeed. I'm sure you'll all agree when the most notorious troublemaker is removed.**

"And what then?" Foreman asked, "What happens when you take your prize and leave again?"

_**We start again somewhere else. If the best diagnostician in the field can do nothing, then I'll have to go somewhere else.**_

"But if House is the best, as you've just said," answered Cameron, "and you, well…" her words drifted off.

_**Kill him?**_

Cameron read it out, then continued, "Yes, kill him. What will you do when you've thrown away what is probably the only chance you have at getting well? What's the point of starting again somewhere else when your best and only chance is here?"

_**I hadn't thought of it like that. I suppose I'll bring Kira back to the people, either that or give myself up. I wouldn't want to do that, whether that meant jail or death, but what choice do I have?**_

"You have every choice," said Morning. "If you just let them treat you, then you can get well. With brains like yours, you could make up for all this yourself. You could do good another way."

Cameron nodded in approval, "You should never choose to give up." Foreman wasn't sure why she answered like that. He'd just practically confessed to considering killing himself outright, and yet she was going for a 'pro-life/pro-choice' speech.

Foreman let himself wear a scowl. "What I want to know is if you plan to give us the full seven days deadline to treat you. You've been in about 52 hospitals, including this one, over the last 6 months or so. Presuming you've offered the deal to every institution so far, and each one has accepted, a lot of the other hospitals haven't had the full seven days. Why is that? Did you enforce a cut-off point on them?"

Light was already writing by the end of the question, and already had an answer, which Cameron read out. _**What I plan and whether I give you the full seven days is my business and mine alone. Not every hospital accepted – they didn't want to bargain with a doctor's life as you do, and so they were treated automatically as the losing party. You are right about the 'cut-off point', but whether I enforce it, and when is my business. You could say that I know all the rules and I hold all the cards. **_

"If you know all of these rules," replied Foreman, "will you ever tell them to us? Why don't we know them?"

_**I usually play with between three to five on the opposing team, and only ever one on my team. Do you really expect me to give away the only advantage I have against you?**_

Exactly as he thought: Light had the rulebook, but he wasn't going to let them see it. What was more, he's always punished the doctors regardless of whether they know the rules or not. It was like looking at society from a Marxist conflict view point – The lower/losing class made up the majority, and it was the winning minority who kept them from acting against the social structure regardless of whether they were aware of it or not. The lower class were often poorly educated for this to work – the less they knew, the less they could do to resist it. The lower class would do manufacturing/slave work for the higher class for slave wages, and they couldn't do a thing about it, even when it cost them lives.

On one hand, this was a sick game played by a twisted mind; on the other, a cruel lesson about the great many faults of the current society, a lesson demonstrating why the world needs Kira.

"Is there anything you can tell us?" Cameron asked. "Anything to look out for?"

_**Why should I tell you anything? Strictly speaking, the work of doctors is to treat and diagnose, not play with wipe boards.**_

"Well, if you want it that way, we can take it away and see how you lord it over us without it." Morning growled, and he made to take the wipe board away, but Light clutched it to him, whispering 'no' as loudly as he could. He bared his teeth in something of a snarl at Morning, while the doctor just smiled back, like he didn't take it that seriously. Had Foreman not known that Morning was married and had children of his own, he would have wondered how and why he handled children and teenagers the way he did.

The wipe board fully in his possession, Light wrote another message. _**I can't tell you how many days you have, strictly speaking. That's against the rules as well.**_

You keep talking about the rules, but who made them?" Cameron asked. "Did you make them all yourself, or…?" Foreman looked at her in mild shock. He didn't need her to finish the sentence for him to get what she was getting at.

Light just stared at her in a look akin to horror. His eyes glowed red again, but his expression remained the same, and his eyes dimmed back to brown. Obviously, he didn't need telling either.

_**What do you mean by that?**_ Came the message. It had been written quickly, but hesitantly. He was starting to panic over it. He didn't know they knew, at least, not until now, and that was the scary part.

Cameron raised her eyebrows. "You know what I mean." Light flinched, as though he'd been slapped, looking away from her to the side, avoiding her eyes.

A pause, his head down, then he wrote, _**You mean Ryuk.**_

"Yes." Cameron said. "That's exactly who I mean."

_**How do you know him?**_

"We know him from you." Supplied Foreman, "And Ryuk's a him? A man?"

He turned to face Foreman now, shocked yet more. _**When did I tell you anything about that?**_

"When you tried to kill Dr House on day 1, September the 6th. You mentioned a Ryuk, and we need to know who he is. This is important."

His head cocked slightly, and his eyes bored into him, looking right past him, not even looking back at his wipe board as he wrote down the reply. _**That isn't allowed. He won't allow it. I won't allow it. **_

"Won't you?" Cameron asked. "You can't tell us anything about him at all? Who he is? Where he came from? Anything like that?" Light kept his eyes on a point behind them, mouthing words that none of them could work out.

_**Pass me the pen and paper, please?**_ Once read out, Cameron nodded and passed the pad of paper to him, taking the lid off the biro and handing that to him with the lid on the end. Without another word, still staring off into the distance, he began to draw. Foreman didn't know what to think, and the amazed looks on Cameron and Morning's faces told him they didn't either as they all watched him sketch out a shape on the paper, interspersing it with various shapes and lines, shading and cross-hatching.

The pen moved quickly, and Light only ever looked at the paper once or twice, keeping his eyes on the distant point. As it began to take shape before their eyes, he bent his knees up to rest the pad on his lap, bending his head over as he finished it out of their view, his fringe blocking out the paper from them.

When he was finally finished, and he'd unbent his head to sign and title the biro sketch, the whole process had only taken a matter of minutes. Neatly ripping the page off the pad, he handed it to Cameron face down. She made to look at it, as did Foreman and Morning, but he shook his head, and whispered 'no'.

_**Look at it later**_. He wrote on the wipe board. _**It's best if you wait to view it with Drs Chase and House. **_

Cameron put it to one side face down, ignoring the shadows of the pen showing through. Foreman couldn't believe how easy it had been to get that information out of him, that he had to wonder if they could do that again with much ease.

"Did Ryuk…" Cameron began, pausing to think through her words, "Was he the reason for the scars?"

_**I don't understand what you mean by that. He was there when no one else was, but he's lax. He didn't make me do anything – he couldn't be bothered to.**_

"Then what did? Did he encourage you to do anything, suggest you do anything?"

Light shook his head. _**I think of him as a spectator.**_

Moring nodded. "I see. So he was like, say… an imaginary friend, then."

_**No. Your idea of 'friend' is different to the way I'd describe him. **_

"I understand." Morning replied. "My eldest daughter had an imaginary friend for a long time, but if she ever talked of it, she described her imaginary friend as something of a rival. I suppose you could say she didn't have any intellectual competition at school, so she created some for herself. Have you ever found that, Light? That you never had worthy competition?"

Light had to pause for that one as he thought. The reply came a minute later in silence. _**Always.**_

"Is that why Ryuk exists? As competition?" Light shook his head vigorously, his eyebrows raised.

_**Of course not! That would be irrational. **_

"Then why? When did he first appear?" Cameron asked.

_**About a year or so ago, perhaps more.**_

"Did that event coincide with any others?"

_**It coincided with a lot of things, but none of which my parents would know of – this never concerned them.**_

"What about Kira?" She asked, "Wasn't he caught just over a year ago?"

_**Yes, you're right.**_ _**Ryuk appeared at around the time Kira was caught. What I meant what that neither of my parents noticed any change with me that would coincide with anything. Concerning their son, they're very unobservant. **_

"Did they neglect you?" Morning asked.

_**Only in a few forms, I suppose. I didn't give them trouble, and I was never the type to do so, in their opinion, so they didn't observe me as they would Sayu, who occasionally faked illness or handed homework in late. She took a lot of the pressure away from me without knowing it. **_

"Was that why you cut yourself?" Foreman asked. Light turned his head to him, glaring angrily, probing him with his eyes. The other doctors glared too, Morning angry, Cameron horrified. Foreman sighed. He was tired of this pussy-footing around the subject, not even sure why they were treating it as such a taboo subject. He could understand that it was a sensitive subject, of course, but Light was a big boy now, nearly 18 years old – practically a man already. If they didn't think he could take it, then he never would himself.

His hands were shaky as he wrote; forming barely legible words that Cameron stumbled over to read. _**Is that what everyone wants to know about? Why I drunk the bleach, why I cut myself? Is that really all everyone wants to know about?**_ Light's breathing was noticeably faster, and Foreman stood up, anticipating a manic episode, maybe even a panic attack.

It didn't come to that. Light took a deep breath, and another one, willing himself to calm. He put his head in his free hand, and stayed like that in an almost catatonic state. It was a while before he wrote again, holding the board in front of his face to hide the tooth-bared grimace. _**I will tell you all you need to know. Cameron can stay with me, and Dr Morning also – they can interrogate me if they wish, while I write down your **_**blessèd**_** information to record in your **_**blessèd **_**case. In return, Dr Foreman must leave, for everyone's sake and mine. If he stays any longer, I will ask for his blood also.**_

Pulling his chair back, Foreman complied. Picking up the drawing, not even daring to look, he left the room with it, planning to let House see it first. He would have argued against the judgement. But that wouldn't help anyone, especially not Light.

He was offering information, and he'd gladly leave if that was the price.

* * *

The whole conversation with Light had been surreal, of course. Cameron hated that she'd had to goad him on and wind him up as she did, hated that she'd resorted to some of House's methods like that. It was awful for her, sick even, but it had gotten results fast. What was more; it had the double-effect of preventing him from using that clairvoyance of his to work out what they were doing. Had he worked it out, he would've refused to talk, no doubt, refused to divulge as he eventually had done.

He had indeed divulged a lot. For a full hour after Foreman had left, she and Dr Morning had asked questions, watching as Light wrote the answers down on the paper, pausing every now and again when he struggled to find an appropriate English word, or when translating in his head was particularly taxing at points – he was still weak after the ordeal, after all, not yet up to his full powers. To that end, there were occasional notes written on the sides in Japanese, the writing tiny but full-formed symbols in miniature.

For about ten minutes or so after the interrogation, Cameron had gone into a janitor's closet to sit on an upturned bucket while she read it out to the bug in her sleeve; sure that either House or Ryuzaki would be on the other end to hear it. She knew that, while they now had a written version of those events, hearing it spoken out loud would no doubt help in their analysis.

So far, the Game Theory was correct, having been proved without any need for the lab rat to hear of its existence. As for the Nozik's Theory of Experience, she'd decided to abandon it: It only worked out when one ignored the fact that depression could generally be caused by a chemical imbalance, and in Light's case, well… it just didn't fit. While it explained the multiple scarring, the fact that Light had cut himself to such an extensive point that the mind could only boggle at the 'why', it didn't explain the others, not really. Not the intended stab, not the truck, not even the bleach.

* * *

Dr Morning had stayed the entire time to listen to the story, asking questions along with Cameron. He could barely remember another time besides the births of his children when he was so excited and yet so full of fear, on the edge of his seat waiting for the climax, and yet willing to run from it.

That Light Yagami… He was really one of a kind. Remorseful, unapologetic, suicidal, clinging to life. He was so many things, and such a contradiction at the best of times. He'd had a secret that he wanted to remain secret, and yet he wished someone would find out before it got too far.

All in all, there was just one thing that agreed: He was dangerous. He was too unstable to be in the presence of anyone, but if left completely alone, away from everyone and anyone that he could possibly hurt, he'd just do sevenfold back onto himself. Had he ever gone to Japan, ever been there when that boy was born, knowing what he knew now, he would've been tempted to strangle the devil babe there and then, or at least advise his mother and father on having him committed to a good loony bin before he turned 16 years old. Heck, even sending him in for counselling aged 5 years old would've made a vast difference.

Thankfully, he was Dr Beyondormason Morning, OD, not some drugged-up creep like House. He had a family he loved dearly, and love to spare for anyone and everyone else, even creeps. He wasn't empty or fearful, just a little bit bitter at times. Dear Lord, he really should have gone back to Alabama – at least then he wouldn't have ended up in the presence of a crazy teenager and with shoes that still smelled like vomit.

At least he wouldn't have ended up in the presence of the one person who could further his name and career in Paranormal Science, whose own paranormality came slap-bang into the field of ophthalmology (his own field), who could still kill him as he could kill anyone else (he was willing to bet). He was so tempted to study the boy when the time came he was sane enough to allow it, even though that would really be a bad idea.

For him to do a continuous study on Light, something definitive that could end up in the science journals, the boy would have to be rid of his will to kill. He would have to be willing to work with him – heck, he knew enough now about that boy's brains to know that he could further that research himself in ways he couldn't dream of after a _good_ day at work. He would also have to have the permission of the boy's parents. He would have to have the permission of his wonderful wife to bring him into their home (which he would have to do to get enough research data to make a case on).

That was the point where it fell down, if ever there was a point. She would never let that boy within even a twenty foot radius of their children, any of their children – even their grownup daughter who lived in Chicago, who had once dated a champion kick-boxer and was still friends with of them, who was the safest of any of them from that boy. Even so, he wouldn't let the boy near any of his family as well, and he was the one most tempted to do it.

If they were willing to stay with his parents for a while in Alabama while he stayed here and studied the boy, it would be fine. That way, none of them could get hurt. That way, the boy was less likely to hurt himself in the process, and he needed the boy alive if his research was to go far at all, if he was to prove the validity of Paranormal Science just once, and not get laughed out of every place that ever heard the words pass his lips – he even got laughed at in Princeton-Plainsboro if he mentioned it just once, especially by Dr House, who refused to believe in anything but the gods of Enlightenment and Rational Thought ('may they rest in the Eternal Home of Glasgow', as House'd usually follow those statements up).

It was really so tempting. He even prescribed the boy sedatives after the talk, and watched as their bitter taste made Light nearly gag as he motioned for a drink of something stronger than water, and wash the taste away with some orange juice provided by Cameron. If he was to be able to study the boy, then he'd need sedatives to keep everyone safe – and with those sedatives, with their fast-acting properties, the world would be safe, and so would the boy.

* * *

**A/N: There, an extra-long chapter 9. For those of you who did spot any odd references to things, I apologise, and for those of you who like that kind of thing, then you'll be pleased to know that this chapter contained the second reference to the 80s film 'Labyrinth' (that starred David Bowie, the king of the titular maze). It's awful I know, but I really couldn't help it. The first one is contained within a previous chapter, and if you can spot it, you get a prize. **

**I suppose now you understand why I didn't give the Japanese translation at the end of the last chapter. As for the chapter title, this one was the hardest for me to find, because I didn't know what it was going to be until the last moment. I had to listen to so much Avenged Sevenfold it was unfunny. Thankfully, I found a few more chapter titles for later chapters, so I'm happy. I've even gotten on to planning some things for the sequel and a prequel fic, thanks to listening to Black Veil Brides and Breaking Benjamin rather than Avenged Sevenfold – and yes, you can hold me to that. **

**Meanwhile, the writing of this chapter has coincided somewhat with a strange time, where the people I know have unwittingly helped me think about some of the more serious aspects of this fic, about how it should go and end. While I'm glad for their help, I can't help but feel awful about the circumstances involved, especially as I'd think of this story during their talks of these circumstances. This, along with a rude letter from a certain site have made me rethink myself in a way that should have been more unpleasant, but wasn't. This is probably more info from me than you're used to, but I'll let you have it anyways, because you deserve it. **

**Just to alert you, I'm wanting to do some fan art for this fic and others, so if you want to do some for this yourself, you can alert me if you like, but if you just draw it and put it up on a site like deviantART, then give me a link and a note saying which fic and chapter the image is from, I'll put that up on my profile so everyone knows about it. If, in the comment/review you write of your fan art, you write that it's inspired by this fic and who the fic is by (i.e. me), that would be brilliant. I'm also thinking of setting up a TV Tropes page, so if you want to help, tell me and we'll get a-going on it. **

**Thank you, please R&R, and please stay tuned for chapter 10!**


	10. Knives and Pens

**A/N: Are you proud of me? I have officially reached double figures with this fic, after about two years of writing it, and I for one am insanely proud of myself. To mark the occasion, I decided to buck the trend of naming chapters after Avenged Sevenfold songs just this once, and decided to name this one after a different band's song, just for the sake of appropriateness. While they sound quite similar to Avenged Sevenfold in style, their music actually reminds me of the Scottish Highlands (but that's down to association, more than anything, having spent the best part of a week listening to one of their albums on repeat while on Alba's soil looking at the magical mist and graffiti-ing in public bathrooms (or just one, anyways)). Do note, if you guess the name of the band correctly and write it in your review, you'll get a prize. **

**Originally, this fic was going just have the first section as a special flash-back chapter (because I really can't see that amount of exposition coming out in a better way), but when I realised I could move the plot a little more forward, you ended up with a longer chapter. The first draft ended up being a 20-page long document, but it's been nicely edited and what you don't get here, you will get in the sister story, which is to be given the same name as this chapter. **

**That's everything you need to know now, so please enjoy a new chapter of AoSI: R!**

* * *

Chapter X

Knives and Pens

_Name: Light Yagami_

_Age: 17 years_

_Date: September 9__th__ 2006_

_Dr Cameron has kindly asked me to answer her questions today. She has asked me to tell her the truth, for my benefit as well as the team's, and I was loathed to argue with her. Currently, I am in my private room at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, being treated by Dr House, M.D. and his team of diagnosticians, along with Dr Beyondormason Morning, O.D. (who must be here with DR Cameron and I because he is still resentful for yesterday's incident with the bleach. For months now, the better part of a year, I have been labelled as strange, unstable, dangerous, even downright crazy. _

_I wasn't always like this, and yet I always was. _

_Dr Cameron has asked me to write it all down, to tell her and Dr House what happened in that year before the 'April Incident' (as my father had come to call it), to tell them why it is that I am here and not studying in Japan to get into University, where I should be by next April. She has also asked that I start wherever I feel is best, so I'm going to oblige and start before that year, at the very beginning, from when I was a young child aged six. _

_From this age, from even before, I was constantly learning. Before I went to school, I could already do a number of things my peers couldn't. I could read, write, and – to some degree – act. I was always acting, having already learnt from my parents' praises how to be the perfect son they had always seen me as. From the moment I understood the concept of 'perfect' I was trying to match it, trying to outdo it. You could suggest that it was my parents' fault for pushing me in that direction, for coming to always expecting that of me, but it was actually mine: Their positive reinforcement had merely shown me what acceptance I could expect, and it was my choice alone that I acted on it. The idea that parents loved their children unconditionally never occurred to me, not until I visited the homes of my classmates and could observe this phenomenon for myself. By then, though, it was just a simple fact that I could offer my parents something that my peers couldn't offer theirs, and I did nothing to change. _

_By the time I was six years old, I knew what social acceptance was, and even how to achieve it, although I wasn't as practiced at the art as I was later. Even then I had the idea that, to curry favour, you had to offer what the other party expect, perhaps more on occasion. I don't mean to say that I was a generous doormat, rather, I acted in a manner desirable to any social group I found myself in, with the trade-off that they became doormats for me. I always made an effort to come across in a manner that they could deal with, doing it to the point that it became almost no effort at all, especially since my first day at Elementary School had gone so badly: Having spent most of my time before in the company of adults and my little sister (who then was only three years old), I'd misjudged to façade I'd required, and while the teacher was pleased with my willingness to learn, if a little alarmed by my seriousness, my classmates were even more alarmed, staring at me when it was apparent I was the odd-man-out. Most merely wondered what was wrong with me, while relatively few actually voiced the opinion. By the next day, I'd fixed my façade, smiling for them even when it was a bother, and I was accepted quickly. They soon forgot about the first day. _

_I'd always possessed that need to be perfect (I still have it now), a drive to do well both inside and outside of study and education. For me, acting for the ease of others and against my baser impulses, manipulating them (and I'm sure that's what you would call it) is as natural to you as treating your patients, or even breathing. I could never admit to hating anyone for fear of causing uncharacteristic offense, but I could use subtlety to push them away gently, even when it required more effort than it was worth. It was just performing the right role at the right time and for the right people, being a certain way. Once I mastered it, it was simply like, you could say, putting on a mask. I put one on and I acted according to its design and the way it was intended to be played; I put on another, and I was instantly reacting to the different design, playing a different role entirely. Each emotion I displayed, each person I was perceived to be, be it Light the student or Light the friend, were never me and never part of me at all. I was fully detached from it. _

_As for my real face, the one behind each and every mask, no one else ever saw it then, not before the April Incident. Before then, I don't think it ever saw the light of day. I've never worn the face I was born with, and you could say it became blank – just a wall or canvas for each mask to be hung upon. The role of playing myself, I never did that. I already knew from my own suspected preferences and that I had to act at all to please that playing myself would only cause trouble. To do so would just cause alarm in and of itself, since it opposes the image that so many people hold of me, since it's so monstrous and unfit to be seen by anyone, and I'm far too old to change it now (at least, not without trouble). _

_While I was (and still am) very much the sociopath I suspect I am, this wasn't quite the biggest problem for me. _

_All this socio-analysis, all this manipulation couldn't have been possible had I not been of above average intelligence. Indeed, it sounds arrogant to say it, I know, but I don't believe it is arrogant considering I'm stating a simple fact. My teacher's considered it a blessing to have me in their class, their school; they were glad for someone who could actively raise the school's grade point average. My work kept me popular with the teachers and my act kept me popular with the students. Everything I did earned me A grades or higher, and I even studied and went to cram school to keep it that way, although I probably didn't need to. I played down my genius whenever I could though, determined to live without the hassle of that status, but my refusal to lose or do badly at all caught me out, and my parents soon noticed, although they've never quite worked out the full extent of this genius. _

_They soon encouraged me to do things outside of study and school, and I was enrolled in piano lessons. I appreciated the challenge it posed to my motor skills to play, and the challenge to my intelligence to learn to read the notes and process the information through the keys. They say that a healthy mind needs a healthy body to house it, and at some point I joined the tennis club; I was determined to live up to that, to be perfect in every way. Not only was I propelled by an endless drive to do my best and more, but also by an incessant need to finish what I started. If being perfect was what I wanted to be, I wasn't going to finish the task at half-way. I never did anything my halves, that just wasn't possible. _

_Things soon soured. I had this keen curiosity that couldn't be quenched; a need to learn that couldn't be sated. The biggest problem – and this has always made my intelligence a problem – is that nothing was ever enough. I always finished ahead of others. Any challenge thrown my way was too easy to overcome. If anything did become a worthy challenge, if it did manage to catch my attention for longer than anything else, the inevitability was that it would lose it in due time. I'd moved onto many hobbies and projects over the years, and conquered each one with relative ease, taking in all I could from each topic if just to keep me entertained a little while longer. My parents, still believing I was their perfect son, thought it was amazing that I was so capable that way, that I was so efficient – they never realised what the negative repercussions were. _

_Nothing was ever enough, and the result was boredom. I was always bored. No challenge lasted as long as I needed it to. Nothing I tried had enough to offer me, had it in them to relieve it. By the age of 12 years old, I was a grade 8 pianist, unable to go any further, and so I stopped playing. When I became the Junior High Champion in tennis, first seed for my age group in my country, I quit, finishing my tennis days just in time to enter Daikoku Private Academy with the excuse that I needed the time to study – to my parents, I was a conscientious, college-bound student who wanted to do as well in High School as I had everywhere else. By then, my many other hobbies had already petered out – even a sudden interest in full ambidexterity didn't last long, for – as I soon discovered – I was already naturally so: Predominantly using my right hand was easier for writing Japanese, and right-handed people were more socially accepted, as well as being blessed with a longer life span compared to their sinister brethren – most products, after all, were produced for right-handed people. _

_Upon entering High School then, or perhaps before, I had become depressed, somewhat. It was haunting to think that life had already lost meaning, that it had nothing of value left to throw at me before I'd even reached 16 years old, but it was true. Having a police detective for a father, I was always acutely aware of the high crime rate, of anything and everything that could and did happen to innocent people. I'd always had a high sense of Justice, had always been resentful for its failings. I soon lost faith in humanity, knowing that while I was the perfect son, everyone else was either too disposed to making others suffer, or too weak to prevent themselves from falling victim to them. While many a child could view this all as something that just didn't happen to them, that just wasn't relevant, it affected me in particular. Dr Cameron can ask 'why' all she wants, but she already knows that I'll tell the truth, that it's because I alone was smart and capable enough to do something about it and more, yet I couldn't do a thing. It added to my depression at life's failings, and made it all worse. _

_By some miracle, I still don't know how, Kira appeared in April 2004, at the beginning of my first year at Daikoku Private Academy. Kira, this god of a punisher who could do something, who was doing something, who'd even proved it by making a criminal fall dead at my feet on the way home from High School. I don't know how, whether it was how his ideas matched so well with my own, or the fact that he was doing what I'd always felt I needed to do myself, but I knew was the answer to the world's problems and – to some extent – my own._

_What was more, my father, the Super Intendant Police Chief of the NPA was heading the task force charged with the case against Kira. I already knew how to access his work computer from home and cover my cyber trail, a skill borne long ago from a desire to meddle and solve cases when I knew the NPA couldn't (as practice, of course, as I intended to follow my father into the 'family business', as it were). In this way I could keep on top of their investigation, learn of it what the media was unwilling to share. To begin with, it seemed as though life had given me something to look forward to, given me some hope in the form of Kira. He was even curing my boredom, giving me something to read in the newspaper that wasn't media trash, giving the world and I a debate to while away the small hours over: Kira is a murderer, but he's killing the very people we're forced to put up with because they're avoiding punishment. He's punishing criminals, but is he right? Just attempting to provide definitive answers for these questions was difficult even for me, at times. This Kira was a murderer, of course, one of the people I despised, but a miracle-worker for killing yet more of his criminal kind, for saving me in the process. For that, I could only have gratitude for him. I always will. _

_There was a problem still, one that couldn't be overlooked: This Kira wasn't the brightest mass of celestial gas in the vacuum, and the super detective L was getting involved. There were times even at the beginning when I thought he'd get himself caught. I had to stand in, if he was to continue with his goal. _

_Dr Morning wonders if I became Kira in his stead here, and I have to tell him no, I didn't. I merely used my connections to meddle from the task force's end. I falsified evidence, mixed up their information, even deleted whole section of their databases and left them no way of retrieving them. I was taunting L from the inside. For months, they couldn't find or catch Kira thanks to what the media would come to dub as 'The Kira Computer Virus' or 'The Case File Vandal', and for the first time I was feeling some sliver of happiness, some remnants of the pride I used to hold because I'd aided Kira, because I'd become part of his noble goal. _

_But it wasn't enough. By February 2005, just days before my 16__th__ birthday, Kira was apprehended. He'd panicked towards the end, slipped up farther than I could help. L had caught him. While his identity was never revealed in the media of in the case files in my father's computer (they were still wary of the Case File Vandal), Interpol and the leaders of America and Japan were still fighting over what to do with him while that coward L simply stood back and let them get on with it. Some of them thought the trial should be held in Japan, Kira's own country, while others demanded he be sent for trial in America, where he'd punished the most criminals. Some of them wanted Kira dead for his crimes against humanity, and other were fine with letting him free to do what he was always doing – these people didn't even think he should get a trial. The fact that they couldn't agree, that Kira's execution has remained unarranged to this day was yet more proof of the need we have for Kira, of the future we'll be facing without him. _

_Kira was hopelessly stupid, unable to keep himself from capture even with my help, but he was what the world needed most; there was no doubt about that. I could have been more bitter that Kira had been chosen to lead rather that someone more capable like myself, but there was no point in crying over it._

_Dr Cameron has asked if I thought of Kira as a god, or as a saviour, or something equally supernatural, but no, I don't. To do so, I would be conceding that he was a level above me, and I know – and had always known, though his faults – that he was simply a man who not only had a plan, but a way to implement it. While that way must indeed have been supernatural, it didn't make him any less human – to suggest otherwise would effectively make truth the phrase 'clothes maketh man', would suggest that it is the doctor's coat and not his knowledge that makes him the doctor he is. _

_A few days after Kira's capture, and everything began really began to fall into place, really started to shape itself into the present-day situation. Even with the ending of the Kira case, Father was still at work most of the time trying to tie up loose ends, and the news of that coward L's payment and withdrawal had hit the newspapers, and with no foresight I found myself suffering from a headache. With the boredom beginning to set in again, and the plague of ennui-induced headaches I once suffered before Kira still in my memory, I didn't think anything of it. No one else was concerned either – to them, I was still and always the omniscient, omnipotent being in human form who simply didn't (and couldn't) fall prey to such ills. _

_But I had, and before the end of the day, I was cooped up in the dark of my room with a migraine and the beginnings of a fever. For the first time in my life, I was absent from school, not working at all. This in itself was strange, that I wasn't in the classroom with my classmates overachieving as usual, that I hadn't even noticed it until I actually returned. _

_Barely days after the start of the illness, and I was back on my feet again, as well as I'd ever been. I felt refreshed, better than I'd felt in a long time. While the change that had occurred in me wasn't apparent at that time, it was the moment I left the house to return to school. I remember that well: Our next-door neighbour Mr Yamada passed me by, and the moment he turned to say hello, something the equivalent of an electric shock passed through my brain from my eyes, along with flashes of images and information the likes of which I'd never seen before. Within milliseconds, I knew the company he worked for, the women in his life, the various incidents of shoplifting he'd committed as a child, even his first name, the knowledge of which I'd never formally earned. _

_It was his life flashing before my eyes with a force so strong, he himself actually flinched and walked away from me as fast as he could, while I could do naught but hold onto the front gate to keep from falling or something of the like. That phenomenon never struck me as strongly before that once – or even after – and it was only the beginning of something strange. From the front gate to school and back again, the same thing happened over and over again. While the shock never came in as more than a slight buzz after Mr Yamada, they weren't any less real for it. The things I could see now were incredible: I could learn so much about a person from these flashes alone. Within seconds I knew things about them that everyone knew, only a few people knew, and that they obviously didn't want anyone else to know. _

_Above all, I knew what deeds they'd committed. Good things, bad things, things that are neither here nor there. They could vary from the most awful crimes of human possibility to the most petty of wrong-doing and, very occasionally, no wrong-doing at all. For children that I passed, ones that didn't even own a leather school ransel yet, I saw nothing. I saw them as I'd always seen them – as the children they were, with no flashes of their short lives to distort it. What was more, the same thing occurred when I came home from school. There were no flashes from even one of my family, none at all._

_It was no wonder, then, that I heard nothing of the side-effects until I found them out for myself, having not heard a word from them about it. It was only when I saw one of my peers through a reflection and saw the flashes again, that I caught sight of my eyes, watching with both shock and a sort of detached fascination as I saw them not as their natural brown, but as a deep and glowing red, like beams. _

_You could imagine my surprise, but I'd rather you imagined my epiphany. Kira had been gone for more than a week, and so far no one had dared to commit a crime in case he was released soon. However, that lapse wouldn't last long, and criminals would be doing wrong once more. If this is to be taken as true, then Kira needs someone to step in his place, someone to continue where he left off, someone to judge them. _

_Someone to judge them. That was my job, I'd realised. I was the one to step in his place. I was the one chosen to continue where he left off. I was the one to judge them. I was, in short, the new Kira – now the only Kira. _

_Then, Ryuk came. A fearsome creature, like nothing I'd ever seen before or since, he came in through my bedroom window like he belonged there. I admit, I was scared of him at first, but only until I realised what his visit might possibly mean for me. He even as good as admitted it: _**Kira's gone for a while,**_ he'd said, _**so you'll do instead.**_ I asked why he was here, why I'd been chosen to be Kira. _**It doesn't matter why, and you don't have to if you don't want. If you think you know a better guy, then just tell him you saw a Shinigami in your bedroom and it belongs to him now. **

_I didn't want to tell anyone else anything, even if I did think there was someone better for the job. Kira's killing method was revealed to me alone as the supernatural power it was by Ryuk. I was Kira now; this was my calling, no one else's. I readily accepted, unconcerned with the true intentions of the creature, accepting the supernatural forces of death that were once Kira's and were now mine. All he said he would do was watch, and that was all he was there to do. He didn't really care if I thought of him as one thing or the other, if I feared him or if I didn't – I was Kira now, and those were the orders. For all he cared, he could just be a figment of my imagination; it didn't make any difference to him. For all I cared, I was Kira, and this lazy unhelpful sneak was just baggage I could ignore as long as I kept apples on the side for him. Indeed, Ryuk loved apples, and that was all he cared about. _

_Yet, short of judging them, I could do nothing. That creature had missed out a detail somewhere because I couldn't kill no more than I could before. I'd done plenty of research on killing in the week after Ryuk came, but these were all methods I could use unarmed, without the use of conventional weapons, and with the improvisation of the unassumingly concealable sort. For example, while I knew ways of killing with, say, a pen, I would always have to be at the scene to do the deed. I couldn't give a person a heart attack without the assistance of a cocktail of drugs, and I'd always have to be there to administer them. I couldn't kill from a distance; I knew no way in which I could have Death swoop down upon a sinner like an in visible force. Somehow Kira could do all these things, and Ryuk – obviously his right-hand Shinigami – wasn't about to tell me how. He had chosen me, and yet he wasn't going to tell me how the Hell I was going to go ahead with the plan. The revolution that Kira had planned to give was impossible now, that much was easy to see. _

_All the while that Ryuk chastised me for being boring, threatened to kill me for not moving whenever he trapped on the glass, I was sinking once more into depression. Being Kira wasn't the relief I thought it would be, and until I could kill as the original had, I wasn't even him, not really. I was a failing copycat, worse than him, a double-failure to the strain. I felt cold and dead, inside a shell impenetrable to the outside. I suppose I'd always felt like that before Kira came, but now it was stronger, more amplified somehow. _

_That became unbearable, for all the same reasons. I had the power of a Shinigami on my side, and yet I was so helpless. All the killing methods I knew, I knew only in theory, and all of them were useless if I were to be Kira. I had the power but I couldn't use it. I was, essentially, back on square one. I couldn't be Kira. I never could and I never would, so what was the point in continuing like that? When a life has dimmed to the point of all but physical death, to the point that only the heart needs to stop for formality, why let it go on? Life had given me nothing. It had made me Kira, given me a will, but that's all it gave – it had, after all, forgotten to give me the way._

_Sometime later, after many months, I did what I thought I'd never do. On the way home, I bought myself a knife, short and sharp with a black no-frills handle. In effect, it was a kitchen utensil, but it had never been used before, and had a high carbon steel blade – one that wouldn't rust, stain, chip, or need much sharpening. It had two names on one side in tiny English letters; names that I was assured indicated high quality. There was a cover for the blade, a cover that could be replaced after every use, if I was insistent on making it last. I wasn't that sure about 'making it last', but hygiene and infection could be an issue – an issue that I really didn't want to address any time soon._

_That same day, I used the knife, marking the occasion with a drag down the top of my left arm and all but a towel at my feet. The pain was awful that first time, was awful every time after it, and the blood was immediate, an image held as strongly in my mind as the blood to the towel. It was shallow though, never as deep as any that succeeded it. As it flowed down my arm and my hand, Ryuk watching with rapt attention and fascination and a grin, the realisation came into my mind as fully-formed as any thought: I was still human. I wasn't Kira because I was still human, and Kira isn't human. _

_After that, a new obsession held my attention, and for the next two months, I continued cutting myself in that manner, not limiting myself to my arm. In my mind, all I knew was that it was Kira's skin I moulding for my own, and until it was finished, until it was fully healed and etched with deep scars like Kira's crown, it couldn't be seen by anyone else. I stopped going to PE while I healed with the help of a forged note addressed from my parents, which the teachers accepted, taking it as proof of my fallibility, proof I wasn't superhuman. Thankfully, the whole school was still wearing the long-sleeved winter uniform, and so an excuse wasn't needed there. For every question, I had an answer ready; for every suspicion, a believable excuse. I had to finish what I'd started, and nothing was going to stop me. _

_In the time that I'd spent carving my skin, I'd changed venues to the bathroom, sitting over the side of the bathtub so that it could catch the blood and wash away the evidence, so I had a limitless supply of water at hand to wash it off my skin and bandages to wrap it up with, so Ryuk could hover and watch with no disturbance but my own. In the two months I carried out this ritual, I'd gone from a shallow scrape on my arm to deep carving on every limb, linked up on my torso and chest, even on my back, intersected with a long slit at each shoulder blade. As ambidextrous as I was, I could have every scar as deep and as smooth as the other, save for the first, regardless of the hand I used. For that, I was fortunate. Yet, there were times when I had had close shaves, when I was almost discovered by one of my family (for despite the status I was coming to hold, they were still my family, as human as they are). Sayu had almost walked in on me on more than one occasion, only for me to switch on the shower just to convince her not to open the door. So worried that I was going to be discovered, I actually lost my cool and panicked on those occasions, and it was down to sheer will that I didn't let her open the door and see me holding the knife to myself, so this 'god-skin' I'd already made for myself. There were times when I wanted her to discover me, wanted her to barge in and take the knife off me and tell our father, would have given anything for her to intervene if just to stop me from harming myself over and over again. There were times, even, when I wished I hadn't been so careful from the start and let myself contract an infection just so that I had an excuse to stop this and come clean. _

_These times, these feelings, however strong they were, were rare. Very rare, and by the end of just over two months, by December, the scars were healed fresh and deep, like grooves that my fingertips could notch within. My skin felt tight by the end, and sometimes I notice it now, but I did get used to it, did put up with it. I'd done it to myself, and it was as much as I deserved. The miracle was that I didn't get an infection at all, and at that time I was sure the Shinigami were with me, though I now know that they were merely watching, not guiding or aiding in any sense, just like Ryuk. _

_Not long after the completion of my god-skin, news broke of a violent gang-related incident that hit in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo that left many gangsters and innocent civilians dead, including a teenager who was shot in the abdomen and died within minutes of a perforated stomach and chemical burns in the cavity caused by natural -0.5pH acid. Though the public network never said anything of the sort, the world knew that it was Kira's fault, that it was directly caused by his absence. They even said as much on the Internet, noting how crime had risen in both rate and violence for a while, how it had only been a matter of time before something of this scale affected innocents. Their comments were angry and they had every right to be, they knew, as everyone knew, that Kira had failed them, that I had failed them. Rightfully they felt cheated. _

_I knew I didn't deserve the title after that. I wore the skin, but I still didn't have the power to be Kira and serve the innocents of humanity. As intelligent as I was, it didn't matter, because I'd failed them. I didn't deserve that name; I wouldn't deserve any of Kira power, even if I had it. Humanity would be better off with a new Kira, without me as him, without me alive. That thought consumed me, and soon I wasn't eating, had lost my will to study and simply do. I still went to school, but I did nothing in lessons without the simple motivation to do anything. I put my entire life on total hold without realising it, my world frozen on the basis of one idea:_

_I had to die. I don't know when the idea struck me as right, but it did, and it was as simple as that. The epiphany had come armed with a new energy that I thought had long since deserted me since my failure, and the method soon came to me then. _

_Taking a knife from the kitchen late at night, one longer than I ever used on myself, I went into the bathroom, knelt in the bathtub once again, and added one more etch across the left side of my chest, in a segment that covered the location of my heart. With an entry marked out to avoid accidents or a miss-aim, I pressed the tip to the middle of the etch, held the handle with both hands, held my breath and… _

_I didn't do it. A knock at the door interrupted me, I stopped out of panic, and by the time Sayu left me in peace, the energy had left me and I dropped the knife. I couldn't do it any longer; something about her presence had stopped me, made me realise what I was really doing. Before I knew it, my hands were shaking too hard for me to make a clean job of anything, and I began to cry. Still bleeding from the etch; I was too weak to do anything but lie in the tub and cry out of shock and frustration. I hadn't killed myself, and so I'd failed humanity; but had I done so, I would've been wasting my potential, failing myself. I'd survived this suicidal experience, though, and for a while my emotions under the mask were everywhere, and I could be disposed to any mood. That was something none of the others could know about, or would be suspected. _

_That worry came to naught, when I caught on to the importance of that event – for some reason, my suicide had been prevented, and that reason would have been important: I was the Kira the world needed, the only Kira, and I was needed alive if I was to do any good. Death was the coward's way out, and taking it would only do more harm than good. The was no good in me crying over it, none at all; because that was my purpose, and one failure would be nothing in comparison to the thousands I could save if I persevered in my goal. With this new determination, this new mission, the depression left me once more, and I threw myself into my studies for school and in Death: If I had to kill criminals with my bare hands, so be it, and so I did yet more research into killing methods. I began an exercise regime that concentrated on giving me strength and stamina rather than simple fitness. That would give me the strength and ability I'd need to carry out all of my methods. As long as I knew them in theory, and generally possessed the necessary strength, then quick thinking and a cool head would be all I'd need to kill cleanly and swiftly as any given situation would allow._

_By the end of it, I was built for Death. _

_By the time I passed into the 12__th__ grade in April, in my last year at high school, I still hadn't put my skills to use. As desperate as I was to kill criminals and reclaim the Kira name, there was nothing I could do until I could do it without getting caught. I could administer both legal and illegal chemicals to induce heart attacks, but until I could get a steady stream of them on hand, track down the criminals one by one… there was, in short, too much effort to put in, and not enough time to pull it off. The risks were too high; Kira was never at the scenes of his killings, that was always established as his god-like signature power and if I was spotted at all near any of the criminals before they die, whether I played it out as a coincidence or not, I would be suspected. _

_As powerful as I'd made myself, I still didn't possess the true power of Kira. I was still as hopeless as I was when I tried to kill myself in January, as powerless as I was before Ryuk arrived, in reality. I was sinking into the oubliette once more, though this was more sudden than the first time, and I was deep in depression before I could acknowledge it properly. _

_It was then again on a morning in the middle of April (I never remembered the day) as I walked to school that the suicidal urge came back. As I walked through Shinjuku as I did to get to school each morning, memories of the gang failure flashed through my mind. I remembered why I tried to kill myself three months before, the need to dispose of this waste, the readiness to do it. By the time I reached the Shinjuku Crossing, the green light was beginning to flash, yet the road was momentarily clear. Without a second thought I pushed past the crowd of pedestrians and onto the road, walking freely to just before the dead centre, the arms at my sides held out palms facing forward, in an almost divine gesture as I turned to my left, staring with a half-smile at a large cargo truck heading right for me. I could almost see the driver, and I imagined that he'd be the last person to see Kira before he broke free of the mortal coil, that he was the holder of the front-row ticket to this end of the world, a thought that gave me some comfort then. _

_The truck sped forward, true to its route, and I could move from my spot in its tracks, not even if I wanted to. As it came closer, headlights blaring in the early morning, almost blinding me, I couldn't think, only hold my breath and wait for death to come. _

_Yet it didn't. Something tugged at my collar and pulled me back, just before it could collide with me. Rather, it carried on like I'd never been there to begin with, and I hit the pavement, the breath and energy knocked out of me. Looking around, the whole world had their eyes on me. I was practically sitting in someone's lap on the ground, a woman's lap, and by the look on her face, she was the one who'd saved me from the truck. _

"_What do you think you were doing?" the woman had asked, nearly screaming at me. Obviously, she was in more shock than I was, as though she was the one to shake hands with Death. "You could get in so much trouble! Were you trying to get yourself _killed_?" She was a dark-haired woman in her late-twenties, a woman I read to be named Naomi Misora, a colleague of my father's, the only woman who'd aided in the capture of the first Kira. _

_I didn't say anything to her, and she must have taken the answer as 'yes', for she helped me up in silence and made sure I was alright. My silence had said it all for her. When the green light turned red, I turned to her and said, "Stay out of my way, Miss Misora, and don't do me any more favours. Just because you worked with my father doesn't mean you can repay your debt to him through me." I crossed the road with the other pedestrians before she could respond, but I still got a glimpse of her facial reaction. It was genuinely understandable shock. We had never met in person before that day, and I shouldn't have even known she existed, let alone her name. She and I both knew that while I might have been mentioned to her, she would've never been mentioned to me by my father, for she was far too involved with the Kira Case, and he wasn't supposed to talk about it with the family. _

_If she had any reason to suspect that I had any kind of extra-sensory perception at all, that would have been it. _

_Arriving at school alive, the excess energy had come back to me, and the darkness was gone, as though Misora's pulling back had subsequently pulled me out of the oubliette. Fully charged up like that, I had no dark thoughts to ground me, just complete agitation. The first lesson had been an exam in Civics, and by then I was restless, actually fidgeting. One of my classmates had chosen that time to start coughing, and each spasm had been like a punch to my tolerance of her. The Invigilator, a large man who loved making students uncomfortable with his presence, was to sit in on the exam. By the time I'd been handed the practice Civics paper, I'd already seen his sins, his memories, working me up further. _

_He'd been a father, once, and would have been now had he not beaten his young son to an early and unnecessary death aged three threes old. The flashback were disgusting, and I was filled with a hatred for him that I'd never felt for anyone else before then. I felt sick to be in the same room as this sadistic monster. The artificial light seemed to blink in agreement. _

_The exam started and I worked through it as quickly as I could, writing each essay in a record time. I'd forgotten to pace myself and hold myself back, to slow myself down to the speed of an average student so as not to stand out. The excess energy was so boundless, I had to tap my pencil against to desk to try and work out the energy and tension, and I couldn't breathe calmly for the life of me as that girl coughed over and over again, agitating me more. _

_I'd finished earlier than I'd ever planned to, the artificial lighting working itself to an early shutdown, just so that I could be excused and leave early, so I could never see the back of that beast's shadow. I'd gotten out of my seat with my left hand practically twitching for the energy, and I'd gotten just close enough to him to hand him my paper. I would have turned and left had he not advanced on me: He touched my arm, and his memories grew stronger, strong enough that I flinched at the touch, at the striking blow against a toddler's head. _

'Kill him, this is your chance!'

'That boy needs to know, needs that justice to rest!'

'Go on, you have all the skill you need. Kill that piece of scum!'

_He'd said something, I remember he had, but I didn't commit it to memory. He was scum, not worthy of the storage, and my arm quirked in a spasm of undue hyperactivity. _

'Now! Kill!'

_I don't fully remember what happened next. All I do remember taking him by the collar, using a fraction of my strength and new-found energy to hold him fast against the blackboard and drink in his fear like a vintage wine. I read more of his memories, hearing the pleas he'd given to the police, the excuses and lies he'd weaved for them and his grieving wife. I knew my eyes were glowing red again; the look on his face was enough to confirm it, and it just added to his fear, added to my elation. _

_I was truly Kira for the first time, and I loved to act in my God-given role._

_I'd threatened him verbally then, telling him he was going to die swiftly, but not before I'd tortured him, not before I'd dealt to him what he'd dealt to his own son. I can't tell you the exact words, not from the first attack, but I knew that I'd said them. I'd taken hold of him one handed by the throat and squeezed, clenching tighter for every exhalation as I described to him his place in the world – none. He didn't deserve one. _

_He was going to die by my hand, that was the greatest part. That was the greatest thrill. I could even feel the life leave him as he grabbed for my wrist, a sensation I could only identify later. _

_The rest is a blur, a gap in my memory, more or less. I remember the lights overhead flickering at a dizzying speed; the mania overwhelmed me before I overwhelmed the man. I remember hitting the floor as he did; the sound of screaming; being surrounded. I know the energy left me, but not before knocking its way through every muscle and sinew in my body and letting me know about it._

_After that, I suppose, there were my parents crying, fussing over me like I was in mortal peril. Naomi Misora was there, talking to my father, talking to me. Only much later did I realise that she'd phoned him that morning to tell him about the incident with the truck, that second attempt; that my father was going to ask me about it when I got home from school; was going to take me aside and talk to me in the privacy of my bedroom, would probably say the very things that would inspire me to show him the Sheffield steel knife in my drawer and all the scars all over my body, inspire me to tell him of my involvement with Kira, the depression, my boredom; inspire me to beg him for the help I obviously needed but had too much pride to ask for before. _

_Had I not had the run-in with the Invigilator and ended up in hospital, had the manic episode, I would've lost my need to lie and keep secrets from his and the rest of my family. I would've either confessed at the slightest opportunity, or else made more and more excuses until I'd dug myself into a hole that I'd then break down and confess in. I'd probably cry, too, and genuinely. _

_That, I think, is the saddest truth of it. _

_The rest of this story, what comes next, you're already living a variation of, Dr Cameron, Dr Morning. It was at that hospital that I learned and perfected my escapology skills with the strait jacket, a skill that came easier as I gradually lost weight in hospital and burned energy on the obliteration of criminals among the patients and doctors alike, using all my methods with the ease I knew I'd have in the theory. I'd even inspired heart attacks through the stress, fear and chemicals I could easily administer. _

_I really started becoming Kira then, as I am now. I do believe now, Dr Cameron, that we've come full-circle. You may go ahead and call me crazy, if you like, dangerous, even, because I know you'd be telling some portion of the truth, even if it hurts, even if it means confessing that, as you saved me from dying from the third attempt, the truth was that I was begging for death and wanted you dead just for taking that death away from me. It was the truth that I'd felt as cheated as the world did after the Gang Failure for being pulled from death, that I'd been as ready to die as I ever was. If the truth is all I could ever tell, then it would also be the truth that I want no more of this; that I'd rather have someone else's life, that I don't want to hurt my family like this, that they deserve much better from me even for the way I've reacted to the stress of being their son and brother. I was never perfect enough for them, and now I never will be. _

_The truth hurts, but that's all I'm telling. I'm just glad there are people strong enough and good enough to hear it out as you have._

_Thank you. _

* * *

Standing up from the bucket slowly and shivering, Dr Cameron wiped at her eyes and gave a sniffle, making to shake herself and get professional once again. Throughout that reading, she remembered, her voice had nearly broken countless times, she'd had to pause to swallow the misery welling up inside her, threatening to have her weeping. How she'd ever managed to dictate the whole sorry story to the bug she didn't know, but she'd done it all the same.

She took a deep breath to steel herself, affixing her poker face before letting herself out of the Janitor's closet. Ignoring the stares from doctors and patients alike, she walked off in the direction of the Nurse's station to pick up the photos that Dora didn't deliver and take them to House along with the confessional. Passing untroubled, she was soon at the glass door of House's office.

Opening up and entering in, she found House standing up at the near end of the table, his cane hanging on the end as he fiddled with projector equipment that faced the bare wall while Foreman sat in a nearby chair. She put the photos and confessional on the side and Foreman stood up to pick them up and look through them, cursing the name of Dora under his breath. Cameron turned to House.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He ignored her for the moment, to plug a wire into the machine's socket, but then he turned to face her. "I thought that our dangerous little manic depressive was such a good artist, we should put his artwork on the fridge."

"So you've seen Ryuk, then." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't exactly a statement, either.

"Yeah, and that kid's seriously got some talent!" The words themselves were innocent enough, but the tone still sounded wrong, somehow, making it sound like mockery. "It would look really good in a professional gallery, you know. It'd probably look a little something like…" he flicked the switch of the machine, and the picture exploded onto the wall in a huge beam of light. "… This." The picture hung there on the wall, burning its image onto the back of her retinas. As her mind tried to comprehend it, she took a step back, a physical flinch from the bulging eyes, the dark spiking hair, the great rows of sharp teeth set behind black lips…

It looked familiar somehow, but she couldn't bear to think how, not at that moment.

"That…" she began, gulping in fear, "that's Ryuk? The 'Shinigami'?"

"That's Ryuk alright," said Foreman, a grim look on his face. "His name's on the bottom, along with Light's signature." He pointed to the names at the bottom of the sheet, the name of the beast in English script, and Light's signature in Japanese. Unlike the Shinigami's name, which was written in his neat, almost italicised script, it was uniquely his in a way, the middle character of his name half the size of the others. She imagined there was significant about it, but she was no graptomancer, and House would call her an idiot for suggesting it, as would Ryuzaki.

The door clicked open, and Cameron turned to look at it slowly, with caution, her breath caught in her throat.

It was just Chase. He came in, practically balking at the sight of the Ryuk sketch. "Whoa!" he yelled, half in shock, half in fear. He closed the door behind him and half-turned to face away from the wall. "That's Ryuk? How can Light stand to draw that thing – I can't stand looking at it for more than a second!"

House sighed, rolling his eyes, "Stone the flaming crows, it may have more teeth than the entire Osmond family, but that doesn't make it any less a hallucination. Unlike them pesky dingoes, it's just a figment of some kid's imagination!"

"Yeah," Chase agreed, "but what kind of imagination would think this thing up?" he gestured in the direction of the projection, pointedly not looking at it.

"The imagination of a teenager who knows more ways to kill a person unarmed than House himself?" retorted Cameron.

"What?" chase and Foreman asked in unison, unsure of what to believe.

Cameron looked pointedly at the white mac laptop sitting on House's desk (obviously not House's own – he was a PC user), and at the others. "Was no one listening to the feedback from my bug?"

"Nah," House was bent over the projector again, adjusting the picture on the window. "I set the mac as mute as the kid, but it's recording everything. I was bored waiting for Dora to deliver those pictures, and Ryuzaki wasn't around to annoy, so I switched it to mute to concentrate on my friend, Yorick the yoyo." He took out his expensive red toy and walked it along the ground to prove his point.

Cameron sighed and went over to the mac, switching off the record function before saving the sound file. Rewinding it, she started it playing during the wipe-board conversation, with Morning, Foreman and her voices on the speaker, her voice going lower to represent Light's utterances.

"_I think he's more concerned about 'solving' me than helping me get well." _There was Cameron's voice, ringing around the room, using the tone and intonation she imagined he'd use, were he speaking. _"He's well-respected, but only because people are scared to be near him."_

"Boy, does he have my number!" House stage-whispered with the excitement of a pre-teen whose celebrity crush had said her name.

"_A man who rules with fear rather than understanding shouldn't be allowed such a high position of power in a hospital."_

"Hello, pot," whispered Chase, giving a smile of amusement, "the kettle called, he wants you to get your own colour."

Cameron gave a tiny smile as she tried to work out how she hadn't picked up on that piece of irony before, and she passed House the confessional to read. She was sure he'd work out something from it, from their patient's own account, his very own words. Holding the papers in front of him, he began reading before reaching for a pencil off his desk and proceeding to circle and underline the text. Occasionally, his eyes widened, and by the time recording had moved onto the confessional reading in the Janitor's closet, he'd finished. He wasn't crying, as Cameron had nearly been, but he had the look of an enlightened man, whose new truth was especially unpleasant.

House sighed. "Yeah, he's definitely having mixed episodes during these suicide attempts, no doubt about it. I mean, the whole 'god-skin thing just blew my mind, but the mood symptoms are all there. The only thing I don't understand is why he didn't think to do what any suicidal teen would do and string up a noose?"

Cameron gave him a hard look. "What do we think, diagnosis-wise?" Chase asked. "Because, I don't know if putting our wipe-board in the corner was a good idea, but we're currently deciding between Bipolar Disorder, Schizoaffective Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder-"

"Borderline's out." House said, flipping through the pages again. "There's no lability, and I really doubt this 'sociopath' could experience temperamental sensitivity to emotive stimuli."

"Yes," agreed Cameron, "he's not so much victimised as he is the victimiser, more or less."

"But that leaves us with Bipolar and Schizoaffective, and we'd have to work out if he's having hallucinations without mood symptoms at any given time just to-"

"Well, how about a new diagnosis for you, huh?" House asked, irritation staining his voice, "How does that work for you? Like, I don't know, say…" he paused to fake thoughtfulness, before blurting out the answer, "Schizoid Personality Disorder?"

Foreman looked aghast, like he'd been dragged in circles, "But that doesn't make any sense! To have that, he'd have to have been showing symptoms for a long time, to, I don't know, have been having social problems, have problems communicating, enough that his parents would have had an idea of what was going on when they found out he strangled the proctor!"

House handed his neurologist the confessional. "Check it out; the proof is all on the paper." Foreman took it, and began speed-reading through, a speed that went down to a crawl as he began reading it properly.

Chase scowled. Cameron knew he hated being out of the loop like that, especially when he only had a recording to half-listen to when he could have the whole story to read instead. "What evidence is there that he's got an internal fantasy world?" he asked.

House scowled back, almost mocking, "Hello? 'I am Kira, hear me roar! My best friend is a voyeuristic clown!' Is that fantasy enough for you?" Yes, definitely mocking.

"Well, I don't think so," Foreman cut in, "If this confessional is right, then he's been like this since he can remember, not since two years ago, when your idea of the fantasy world started. His parents had no idea, and they know him better than we do, if at_ all_."

"Didn't everyone think he was the perfect guy?" Chase asked, "And wouldn't the perfect guy have charisma? Charm? Since when did a schizoid kid have any of those things?"

"Since this one got any with murder!" House shot back.

That was it now, she had to cut in. "Let me say," Cameron began, "that I think House is right." She kept her cool perfectly, and yet they still heard her, Chase's jaw dropping and House looking smug in the wake of an ego-stroke. When no one argued with her, she continued. "According to Ralph Klein, there are a few SPD individuals who will present with an engaging and interactive personality, who he referred to as 'Secret Schizoids'. Neglectful parenting is often considered a factor of SPD anyways, and while he hasn't been neglected in an obvious way, you could say he's had some form of emotional neglect. While there may not be a 'fantasy world', that doesn't seem necessary in this case, at least not right now." House smiled, almost completely satisfied with her answer. It was as though he was thinking along a certain train and, as reliable as German departure and arrival times, she had caught it.

"Not right now?" asked Foreman, "What do you mean, not right now?"

"Well," she answered, "SPD is all well and good in saying that he was always mentally ill, but he's hallucinating, he's got mood symptoms, and that Kira fantasy isn't internal, not anymore. We could say that it's developed, gotten worse while no one was looking."

"What between now and when he first strangled the proctor?" asked Chase.

She sighed, shaking her head at the stupidity of his question, "No, between now and any point during his childhood, perhaps two years ago with Kira. I believe his parents only took any interest in him when he did what they expected of him – or at least, that what he feels. If he really is a 'Secret Schizoid', then no one would have been looking at all because no one would be thinking to look. That's how he's been getting away with this self-harm, the stabbing, and yes, murder. In fact, had his father's work colleague not been there when he walked in front of the truck, he would've gotten away with that, and probably would've caused others to die as well. What's more, he's probably an accomplished liar. Actually, if he isn't I'd be very surprised, and I would usually be looking for the best in him."

House picked up his cane and limped over to his chair, sat back in it and rubbed his hands with a disturbing glee. "Ahhh, the force is strong in this one!"

"But who's to say he wasn't lying in this 'confessional'? Foreman asked. "If he's as practiced a liar as you say he is, then there must have been some lying in it."

"The evidence is literally on his skin," answered Cameron, "and he had no reason to lie then, nothing to benefit from it but going back to square one again and never getting cured. If you're so concerned he lied, you could try asking his parents for their side of the story. If it matches up, we can be pretty sure he's telling the truth, right?"

Standing back up, House hobbled over to the wipe-board, pulling it out of the corner to write in a new column, _Schizoid Personality Disorder – Secret Schizoid_. Suddenly, he turned and glared at them, as a thought came to his head. "Speaking of which," he began slowly, "if you're all here, then who is watching our Master of Death?"

Chase put his hand up. "I went to see Light earlier, when Cameron had gone to record the confessional on the bug. Dr Morning was with him at the time, and his parents had just come back, so while we were there, I got permission for us to run a couple of tests on him."

Cameron's eyes widened. It was her turn not to believe. "Tests? What did you need to perform tests for?"

"Well," Chase replied, "his lunch had just come, and Dr Morning had told us how he'd taken one bit of his shepherd's pie and refused to have anymore, saying he 'wouldn't risk it'. Dr Morning didn't think much to it because, you know, Light is Japanese, and he didn't think that the Japanese diet had lamb and mashed potatoes very often, if at all."

"But you remember the bleach, right?" Cameron asked.

"Yeah, and I thought, 'that stuff's got to have had an effect', so we went and did a few tests on him, and it turns out he's more or less lost his sense of taste."

"So, all in all, "House mused, "a pretty pointless test. He could've told us that when he got his voice back."

"Yeah, but it's good we know why he's so paranoid about shepherd's pie! He probably thinks there's poison in it, since he can't taste the difference."

"But still pretty pointless."

"Who's with him now?" Cameron asked. She felt a major bickering war coming on.

Chase turned to face her, "His parents and sister, but Dr Morning doesn't have any more lives to ruin today without his lucky scalpel, so he volunteered to stick around and make sure he doesn't play 'ninja assassin'. His words, not mine."

Cameron nodded. "It's good to know we've got someone else to help us with this. I was beginning to think we were outnumbered at one of him to five of us."

"Yes, but now we've only got a sixth of him to deal with than a whole fifth." Chase shook his head. No matter how they thoughts about it, the maths was bad, and it was largely bad for them.

"No, I think we're still down by 1:5 – where's Ryuzaki?" asked Cameron. Somehow, through all of the bickering, she'd only just taken on House's 'Ryuzaki's not here to annoy' comment and counted the number of people in the room. It was a slow discovery, but an important one, nonetheless.

They all looked over to House, who shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I know? As far as I'm concerned, good riddance."

"But he said it himself, right? He has a duty to help on this case." Said Foreman, "All he's done is stay here for the first day, stick around to watch me admit it wasn't Schizophrenia, and then take off."

"Might he be working on a different case? Like the one about the missing Vicodine?" asked Chase. "He is an 'Unprivate Detective', after all."

"I don't think so." Cameron answered. "This one is bad enough, and we need all the help we can get – he knows as well as we do that Light can be dangerous."

"What's more," Foreman added, looking at the documents on the table, "I think he took the blue folder with him. Either that or Dora took it the last time she came in here."

House shook his head. "No, the last time Dora came in here, it was to deliver a case folder to me two weeks late. By the time I got it, Mr Toors Denote went into a vegetative state induced by bad doctoring, and had his apples stolen and eaten two months later by our Ninja Assassin and his biggest fan." He looked pointedly at Cameron, and she blushed.

"Maybe he took it to do his own research?" Chase asked quickly, noticing her blush.

"But into what?" Foreman asked, "We have the kid right here, and as far as we know he's not seen him once."

"Maybe," began Cameron, recovering from her embarrassment, "he's looking at something that we don't have all the information for, that he could probably access better than us." When Case and Foreman looked at each other and then back to her, her comment doing nothing for clarification, she continued. "Maybe he's looking into what happened at the other hospitals, how he behaved when he was in someone else's care?"

House turned to look at her, and smiled. "Great Fry's ghost, I think she's got it!"

"You mean," said Foreman, "while Light's told us what's happened from the beginning to when he was first hospitalised, and we know what's happened since the seventh of this month when he came here to today, Ryuzaki's gone off to find out what happened in between?"

"Exactly." evaluated Cameron, and House gave a few claps.

"Two correct answers in a row," sighed House, "if you get any better, I may have to start letting you use my markers!"

"Good," smiled Cameron, "because I already gave Light one of them to borrow."

* * *

**A/N: There, a wonderfully long chapter of AoSI: R. I really hoped you enjoyed it, especially as it was one of those 'one-off' chapters that take a different format (and I do apologise for the excessive italics here). However, you can be rest-assured that, from now on, I'm going to be giving a lot more references to previous chapters: As the referring back to chapter 1 seems to have gone well, I'll definitely refer back to previous chapters, which you may either like or hate. **

**This chapter also includes references to other things, in a 'blink-and-you'll-miss-it' kind of way. You should write in your review if you spot any of them, and in the next chapter I may clarify them – heck, the last author note may just be a clarifier of all the references I put in the entire fic, just to keep you happy. There will be prizes for the one who can guess the most in both this chapter and the ones before it. The Gang Failure, I'll have to say in advance, is a reference that pre-dates its source material – a fic that is yet to come! You have to read 'Fame Less than Infamy' before you read it, when it comes, so you're warned. **

**I just want to say to those who read this and think, 'Damn, are the House-and-crew dialogues ever dodgy?' I just want to say to you that I like how dodgy the dialogue and the humour are in this, especially the humour. It's like the last remnant of the original version, and I like how it goes. If you do or don't, just tell me, okay? I'm interested in what you have to say! **

**Well, I have some wonderful fun planned for chapter 11, and if you have anything to say about it, please just R&R!**

**Please stay tuned for chapter 11, and thank you for reading thus far! **


	11. Scream

**A/N: And after a long, long, LONG wait, you have a new chapter. One that doesn't hurt your eyes with italics abuse. Not only is this chapter something of a celebration of how well this fic is going so far, it is also the first chapter of 2012, making this its own landmark (but not one that warrants a non-A7X chapter title this time). I know that updates will more or less stop until the end of June, so, for this one, I've decided to treat you with an extra-long and most gorgeous chapter, one that I'm hoping you will enjoy immensely, especially as I am so proud of it. **

**Originally, this was going to have a bit more added on the end, but thanks to how well this one just ended, I was pleased enough to leave it here and as-is. Just remember, once again, please read and review this baby, because this is my brain-baby, and don't forget to tell me if I'm going wrong at all. **

**So, please enjoy yet another chapter of AoSI: R!**

* * *

Chapter 11

Scream

September 10th 2006

Day 4

_What do you think you're doing? _

_Why are you giving up like that?_

_Yes. Didn't we agree we wouldn't show such undeserved generosity?_

_What are they going to think when they see you now, knowing what you've done?_

_Since when was a god so weak?_

_What do we need to do to remind you? A week ago, this would've meant ensuring their Silence._

_What a load of bull!_

Light opened his eyes. He'd long since been conscious, keeping his eyes shut to allow himself safe passage back to wherever it was he'd just left, but he just couldn't get there. The voices had started up the commentary again, yelling, keening at him as they always did. They always had an opinion to voice – so unlike Ryuk, who just amused himself with watching him from day to day, grinning with that wide, painted, mostly silent mouth of his. His eyes opened slowly, gradually, until he found himself in the same darkness that had been before, just as surrounded, just as alone.

This wasn't so bad, at 3 o'clock in the morning. He was used to this at all hours of waking, all night every night. In fact, it suited him quite well. He often had this irrational fear of awaking devoid of his clothing, his scars on show for the world to see, to point, to stare. Or, at least that's what he expected would happen. People tended to be afraid of the strange and unfamiliar, of what didn't fit the template marked 'Perfect', and he knew enough about Perfect to know he didn't fit it, not at all. If anyone outside this room ever saw them, ever even suspected that they were etched in his skin, the skin of this perfect creature, they'd shame him with glares of horror and gifts of pity.

_What are you talking about? They already know._

_There are photographs making their rounds through the hospital, I'm sure of it._

_Wasn't it only yesterday when they stripped you like a dog? What did your mother think?_

_Bah! You're a creature of some kind, but certainly not Perfect!_

_You make me sick._

He hated Stress. The way it built up inside his body, grating from under the skin, tensing and twisting his muscles relentlessly, without release. It made him contort during nights like these, and he did so, his back arching up as his arms stretched out and he folded back in on himself in waves of shudders. His hands found his head, gripping it, digging his nails into it, through the hair that was once so neat and trim, but now overgrown and hitting his shoulders, sending stabs of irritation through him with every brushing strand, worse than the caustic itch still present inside his mouths and at the corners of his lips. He grit his teeth against it, eyes screwed up as he wished, begged for that dose of soma, something to make it bleed out of him like it used to.

It was so easy nowadays for him to just break down and cry during these nights, as easy as it was for him to awaken. On this particular early morning, he did, and tears ran down his cheeks, the next best thing to bleeding. Only the night before, he'd been able to taste the saline of them when they ran past his lips, when he licked to brush them away, but not tonight. Tonight he only had the memory of salt to go on, not the real sensation that reminded him that, past that mind of his, he was a human, a Child of Dust.

He was always so glad when sleep came back to him, always happy to forget for the moment that, in two to three hours he would wake up once more, and the whole cycle would begin again.

He didn't have that much to be glad about, nowadays. That was true.

* * *

Light Yagami yawned, mouth opened wide to display white teeth through the gaps in a pale golden long-fingered hand, honey-brown eyes closed in the exhalation. The skin was stained dark with bruising beneath each eye, almost indicative on their own of a terrible night's sleep. In the space of more than three full days, the laceration about his right temple had healed significantly, and the bruising had coloured down to something approaching green rather than its original purple and red.

He hated guys like him. Those that could feel and look like Death itself, and still be eligible for that damned Best Smile award that appeared annually in magazines and on television. Those that could wear the rattiest sweater known to living man made in postmodern times, and still carry it off as well as a tailor-made runway design. Those that could be as wicked as Sin-incarnate and still look like God's angels saw him and wept on behalf of all Creation for the joy of his existence. He hated this one most of all, and for no real reason that he could presently fathom.

Although, come to think of it, it was probably because this one out of all the others had been the one to strangle him. Or at least attempt to… The bottom line, in any case, was that this one was crazier that the influence of most guano, and was still getting away with trying to kill him – the cane-shot to the head, he'd decided, didn't count on account of its clean healing.

It wasn't that he, the Great Dr Gregory House, MD, was bitter – he just hated letting things like this slide, especially when his life was on the line without his signed permission. He wouldn't have felt so hard-up about it if he'd had a say in the matter, especially as that scenario would've made him look like a hero in the eyes of Cuddy and the Twins (probably). But now, because of Cameron the Marker-Molester, he was 'Limp-y the Miserable Old Coot' indefinitely, and he wasn't even fifty.

What's done – he would have to admit – was done. The past was behind him, along with those attempts of the Ninja Assassin to do the dirty work and do him a favour, all of which had failed, so far. Presently, he was stuck in the patient's room with the Defective Detective Ryuzaki and the patient himself, waiting for the teenager to finish yawning long enough to let them introduce themselves.

Before the morning was out, he finished, and gave them a look of impatience, one that said, "Well? What are you waiting for?" House glared back at the patient before he thought to clear his throat.

It was Ryuzaki who spoke first, stealing his thunder. "Good morning, Light Yagami." The patient merely gave a curt nod in return, his attention fully focused on the Unprivate Detective. "My name is Rue Ryuzaki, and I am here to aid Doctor Gregory House and his team as they diagnose you." His voice was that low monotone of his, and apart from the pink cap, which had disappeared between now and his last visit, he looked the same as he ever did, the doll-mask still pulled firmly over his face, and his simple outfit still the same, although he couldn't quite tell if they were the very same articles, or just copies.

Light, meanwhile, couldn't help but stare at Ryuzaki. His eyes were gleaming the same red as usual in the presence of new-blood, yet the expression on his face was different: There wasn't the typical smirk, but a look more akin to frustration when it didn't need to be there. He wasn't being taunted, not that he could tell, and Dr Morning certainly wasn't instigating this time. From beneath the mask, house was sure that a smirk of his own was on Ryuzaki's face, his favourite way of saying _"I know something you couldn't hope to dream of working out but yourself"._ For all the discord he could see being brewed without his help, there seemed to be an understanding between them. They stared in silence at each other, like a twisted Romeo and Juliet tableau of star-crossed lovers, starring the Defective Detective and his deranged psycho suspect/patient.

He couldn't have such fraternisation, not for all the homoerotic overtones he could see developing (how many times had he considered taking Wilson to be his live-in lover/nag in the past year alone?): It would break the air of 'professionalism' that might possibly exist. It was, after all, yet another one of his star-studded stage shows. Nothing or no one but Miss Honey-Buns could take that away from him, and even she had a hard time doing that.

He opened his mouth to break the silence, but Light, without even reaching for the wipe-board and marker pen, did it for him. "I suppose Doctor House is here to learn more about the deal we have? A rule to break? A loophole to exploit?" The boy was addressing Ryuzaki, but had his eyes unequivocally fixed on House, glaring at him like it was the only expression he knew. His voice seemed to have recovered remarkably well, considering the bleach abuse it took only two days ago. Still, it was quieter than a typical indoor-voice, not quite to the task of shouting or hostile sarcasm.

"Sorry, kid," House jumped right in there, the witticism out of his mouth before his brain could request a reign-in and have it stamped and signed in triplicate, "but the only loophole I can find is that you'll finish yourself off before you even start on me."

Ryuzaki's pupils rushed to the corners. They hit him with the diagnostic team favourite, the 'You're-Not-Helping' look. Light's eyes had already shifted back to brown as they began counting the fibres of the strait-jacket that had somehow been left and permitted to become an extra blanket upon his bed, (the fault of which he'd just decided was Dora's) in an unmistakable look of shame.

House's opinion of the boy uncharacteristically softened, somewhat. Were their positions reversed, he could imagine that he'd react in a similar way, that he'd get choked up over something so delicate. Of course, he didn't indulge the thought for long, for it was a distinct lack of empathy that attributed to his outstanding career in the field of Medicine.

"Do you wish to hear our thoughts on your condition so far, Yagami-kun," asked Ryuzaki, taking the effective approach of ignoring the doctor for the time-being, "or do you wish to wait for your parents, so that they can hear it with you?"

Light shook his head, barely looking at either of them as he spoke with his whispering voice. "I'm happy to hear it now. If you don't, I won't stop wondering until you do. I'm not very patient, I'll admit."

Ryuzaki nodded in House's general direction, signalling for him to take over. "We believe that, with that confession of yours as evidence, you have Schizoid Personality Disorder."

Light stared at him, completely missing the fact that, barely feet away, Ryuzaki was rustling through the drawers of the bedside table, inspecting the clothing, toiletries and books hidden in them. "Schizoid Personality Disorder?"

"The 'Secret' variety," House confirmed, nodding, leaning on his cane, "or rather, you did."

"So I don't now."

"No. Whatever bogeyman you had has evolved, we think, into something as bad as the Blair Witch and jersey Devil combined. We also think you have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but-"

"You can't confirm it without a formal diagnosis carried out by a mental health professional." Light cut in. "I'm already quite aware that I have it, and it does seem logical, since my mother has already been formally diagnosed with the condition. All you've done is confirm it for me." House wasn't sure what else to do but nod, so he did.

"Is that all you've come to tell me?" Light asked, irritable to a subtle degree that only he could manage, "Only I've got nothing to do and not enough time to do it in."

House rolled his eyes. "If you don't like my company, all you had to do was say so… or would you rather _strangle_ me instead?"

"Oh, if only." Light replied, giving a smirk. He looked over to Ryuzaki, who was still looking through his drawers, glaring at him until the detective took notice. When he finally did, Ryuzaki nodded from behind the doll mask, closed the drawers, and walked out, motioning for House to follow.

"Someone will be here soon," said Ryuzaki, turning to face Light from the other side of the door, "at least, if your parents aren't. Please get well, Yagami-kun." He briefly waved and left completely, walking hunch-backed down the corridor House, meanwhile, said and did nothing in return, just limped off down the corridor after Ryuzaki, wondering if the detective would slow down just long enough to allow him to lead the way back to his own office.

* * *

Working for House, as most every one of his team agreed, was exciting. Yet, like every other job, there were its low as well as its high points, and right now was one of those lows – when a morning was spent not following one of House's many typical orders (each one more outrageous than the last), or doing various errands and clinic hours for Cuddy or another doctor, it was spent in House's office drinking coffee and rereading old case files like dog-eared dime store novels, or else playing poker using a stolen bottle of Vicodine as little white chips. Sometimes, they used real money, especially when the risk of getting caught with House's precious pills didn't add enough to the excitement.

As it was on this particular morning, Foreman wasn't around with his playing cards, instead aiding Wilson with child with a tumour in her pituitary gland (the word on the wing was that he would've asked Chase, but after that last prepubescent cancer patient, no one wanted Chase anywhere near the terminally ill and never-been-kissed). With no poker, no errands, no clinic hours and no other patient but the ever-unruly Light, Cameron and Chase settled down with coffee, the projection of the Shinigami sketch switched on for mild entertainment.

Five solid minutes of staring at it, and that vague sense of incomprehensible familiarity was clearing for Cameron, becoming a little less vague and a little more comprehensible. As the answer came to her internal question, that feeling of comprehensibility gave way to confusion, and her brow knitted together to be expressed on her face. She was hoping that would clear as well, and that something in her mind would click like the well-fitting of jigsaw pieces, but it didn't – at least, not fast enough for her.

She took a sip of coffee, and thought. An idea was coming through, something clear and simple that didn't leave her more confused than it did comprehending. She looked over to the wipe-board, at the list of symptoms and diagnoses, where _Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder_ had most recently been added to the new list of definite conditions, right under _Schizoid Personality Disorder – Secret Schizoid_. It became more and more clear the more she thought about it, and she took another sip of heated caffeine to aid its arrival. Yet, just like that, the idea drifted away again, and she scowled in frustration, suddenly possessing a hatred for Irony and all of its evils.

What had she been thinking about? What had that brilliant idea been? It was maddening, that she could have it so clear in her mind one minute, then forget it like that the next.

Meanwhile, Chase set his mug down on the table in front of him, wiping his mouth slightly as he took another glance at the monster on the wall. Looking back to his colleague, he broke the silence. "You know, I was just thinking." He said, and Cameron directed her scowl at him, angry at him for further preventing her task of seeking out the missing thought.

"That's new," she said, "did it hurt much?" Her voice was full of spite, and she regretted it almost immediately. Anger was never her strongest emotion, nor her most practiced.

"Oh, sorry." He answered, his expression a little sheepish. "So you don't want to hear it, then?"

Cameron's expression softened immediately, and she offered an apologetic smile. "No, I do. What is it?"

Chase smiled back. "Well, I was just looking at the Shinigami when it kind of hit me: Doesn't it look familiar, somehow?" Something in Cameron's mind clicked, and Irony threw back its ugly head and laughed at the amount of her it could already make its bitch: Obviously, that genius idea of hers had indeed escaped her brain, only to find itself lodged in the only other one in the room. While she was glad that she'd found it again, and glad it proved that her colleague was indeed hiding a brain beneath his golden pretty-boy hair, she was a little miffed that he had to be the lone to voice it.

"You're right," Cameron replied, "it does. I thought so yesterday, but I couldn't think of who it was until today."

"Yeah," Chase nodded, "Isn't it like, I don't know, what's-his-face…?"

"Luke?"

Chase raised his eyebrows at her. "No, who the hell who we know named Luke around here?"

Cameron rolled her eyes. "We only met him two days ago – I'm talking about the boy with the milk from Starbucks. The one with purple hair and makeup?"

Chase's eyes widened, looking bluer than ever. "That kid's name is Luke? How do you even know that?"

"The typical way: I went to find him after we took care of Light, just to make sure Light can call him when he gets better."

"And?"

"I got his phone number, but only after ten minutes of the kid trying to charm me into bed with him." Chase raised his eyebrows at her. "I mean, he only looked 18, 19 at the most, and he had the manners of an oversexed Frat boy: As if I would do that."

"But you got his phone number." It wasn't a question; more of a statement of fact.

"Yes, and I got it for Light." Chase continued staring at her, like there was more to her story and he knew she was withholding information from him. She sighed, pulling a scrap of paper out of her lab coat pocket. A name was scrawled on the top of it, followed by a cell phone number. Sure enough, the name read _Luke Laurie_, signed off with a love heart forming from the tail of the 'e'. It was too neat to belong to any American teenager she could imagine, too slap-dash to belong to any Brit she could imagine either. It was, in short, like 'doctor's handwriting', as she'd remembered thinking at the time.

"Does he know it's for him?" Chase asked, "Or did you forget that little detail?"

"Do you really think that little of me?" she asked. "I did tell him it was for Light, only he didn't seem to believe me."

"How did you get away?" Chase's smile took on a leering quality, and his voice became a whisper, as though under the impression he was saying something completely inappropriate.

She sighed. His maleness (she decided) was getting too much already, and she was quite willing to see it go again. "It wasn't like that." That look on his face remained, and she continued. "But I told Luke very clearly – and I mean clearly – what I thought of his intentions."

A wider leer. "Come on, what did you tell him?"

"Nothing, really, I…" as evasive as she knew she was being, she scanned her mind back to the conversation, picking out the words. "I just told him that, while I got the signal, I thought our ages and social statuses might cause a bit of a stir."

Chase laughed loudly, like it was a joke or the retelling of a favoured TV sitcom episode. When his laughter had finally died away, he took a sip of his coffee, still smiling. "House is right." He said.

"What?"

"You really are his biggest fan, aren't you?"

"What?" she asked again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, really." He answered, finishing his coffee and standing up to put it by the sink. "Just that only you, Dr Allison Cameron, can find something endearing about a mentally and physically scarred criminocidal teenager."

Cameron rolled her eyes. "He may be scarred and – as you phrased it – 'criminocidal', but that doesn't make him any less our patient. You should know that. Besides, you're one to talk, Mr Help-the-Paranoid."

"Ha, ha, ha." A sarcastic laugh and he sat back into his seat. When he continued, he was off on a new tangent. "Which reminds me, has he been taking those sedatives? At least, did he take them yesterday?"

She nodded in confirmation. "Yes, he followed the doctor's orders."

"That's odd." Chase said, eyes looking out into space on an internal tangent of his very own.

"Odd? How is that odd?"

She didn't find out, for the team's honorary member Dr Morning knocked once on the glass door and came in, letting the door close itself behind him as he made for the coffee pot. "Morning," he mumbled, addressing the both of them as he practically stumbled to the heated caffeine dispenser. Within minutes, he was holding a mug of black coffee and making his way to the table, taking a sip as he shuffled.

"What're you doing here?" Chase asked, voice stuck somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Don't you have a lost scalpel to find, or another ten year old to unnecessarily save from the brink of death?"

"That's so funny," replied Morning, his country voice slow from fatigue, "I forgot to laugh."

"This isn't a laughing matter," Chase scowled at him; more man that boy, "it the improper disposal of surgical equipment that causes infection and chaos in places like these. If some kid picks it up, you know they'll be here longer than they hoped to be."

"Quit your belly-aching, will you?" Dr Morning growled. "I'm making it up to you by being here. I could be home right now getting some extra sleep and quality time with the wife and kids, but instead I'm cooped up in here on a nice day like some Sally Army voluntary chorister, and about as useful as one too. Is that enough?"

Chase snorted, and Cameron shot him a look before addressing the optometrist. "Yes, of course it is." She said, offering him a smile. "But I was under the impression you were here to get revenge on our patient vomiting on you."

Moring sighed. "I wish that's all it is. To be honest with you, that precious scalpel of yours was stolen from me, and-"

"_Stolen?_" Chase repeated. "You let a surgical instrument sharp enough to cut through several inches of human flesh at once get _stolen?_ How could this get any _worse?_"

"If you let me finish," replied Morning, as calm as he ever was, "I could tell you that the thief had my coat pulled over my head the whole time, and I couldn't do a thing to stop him. All I know," he continued, for he saw Cameron about to interrupt, "is that the thief had red eyes that glowed." Cameron's breath caught in her throat. "As far as I know, Light Yagami's the person with that description here, and I'm pretty damn sure he stole it. His track record with knives is pretty telling, after all."

Cameron stared at the black doctor wider than once thought medically possible. "You…" she began, "you can't be serious."

"I am," Morning nodded. "And if there's anything I hate more than vomit in my shoes, it's thieves." To punctuate the statement, he placed the mug on the table, cracking his knuckles to create that ominous sound.

Cameron didn't know whether to agree with him or not, whether to side with Morning and believe that Light could have stolen the scalpel, or to side with chase and insist that it was all an excuse to cover up his own failings, regardless of what evidence there could possibly be to support either accusation. In either case, be it thievery or foolishness, she was sure it wasn't going to end well – or at least, not cleanly.

* * *

Stood by his bed, she handed him the tiny shot-glass of sedative pills, noting his grimace as he eyed them suspiciously, like they were plotting against him with their bitter taste, bitter enough to penetrate through his dulled taste buds. With the glass of orange juice at the ready, she watched as light gave one nod, knocked back the dosage, and took the juice right out of her hand, drinking until about a third of the juice was gone. Beside her, chase shot the boy a suspicious look of his own, but he didn't say anything, not even when he set the glass back on the bedside table, the tiny cup set down beside it.

Light gave a shudder, before turning his attention to the coal-grey sweater he was wearing, a sweater that, once upon a time, could have been black. It was fraying at the ends of the sleeves, and the stitching was coming undone at the shoulder, the left sleeve in real danger of being pulled away. At the present time, he was inspecting a stain on the front – a deeply dark stain that he gave a couple scratches at as he scowled at it, and with good reason; Cameron suspected it immediately to be of dried blood.

Chase was the first one to speak, breaking Light away from his ministrations. "Why are you wearing that sweater?" As rude as it sounded, Cameron supposed that he had a good reason to ask: As well as being faded, frayed and stained, it seemed to give off an odour that could give it a life of its own, a by-product of sweat, blood and body heat, and what must have been a complete lack of detergent. In short, it seemed to be talking, and what it was saying wasn't complimentary to anyone.

The corners of Light's lips performed an upturn, though his eyes remained fixed downwards, particularly on the strait-jacket on his lap, counting fibres. His voice had recovered well since yesterday, but it seemed that it wasn't without pain that he spoke. "In case you hadn't noticed, all my clothes are getting this way. My parents and sister have been generally living in hotels as of late, and they can't afford to pay many of the laundrettes or dry-cleaners in this country, not with medical bills to pay." Cameron tried to think back on the clothes he'd been wearing the last few days. There was the black sweater with the white trim around the collar, that first day. She supposed that the trim may have been off-white, the black fraying and the hem fraying, but she hadn't paid that much attention. The trousers, beige or tan in colour, might have been frayed, be she definitely couldn't recall that. The second day, with the dark sweater, she couldn't recall its original condition, only that if it hadn't been dirty then, then it most certainly was now. Third had been a t-shirt and almost nothing else which she remembered having a hole in it, but near the bottom, where it was mostly covered by the blanket he had on him.

She supposed that, the moment Light could do something about it, he'd throw them all away or send them to charity stores, perhaps even (and she seemed to prefer this idea the most) burn them in a metal trash can in someone's back yard. If there was a federal law against the disposal of trash that way, it would be nothing compared to the crime against humanity the clothes would be committing just by existing a second longer.

It was not a wonder, then, why this obsessive-compulsive fidgeted, never looking comfortable: She wouldn't either, if she had to wear them, and neat-and-cleanliness had never been as much of an issue as it must be for him.

She realised she'd been silent for too long, and so she replied quickly. "Oh, I see. Speaking of your parents," she continued, "where are they? Aren't they usually here by now?"

Light shook his head, "No, my mother and father have scheduled something to do today, something they apparently need to sort out themselves. My sister's spending the day at our aunt and uncle's house, since they live in the area."

"As in, in Princeton?"

Light nodded, "Yes. My mother's brother moved here fifteen years ago to follow the _American dream_," he said the words with some distain, "and he took a wife here as well. I believe they have children as well, but I've never met them, nor have I seen pictures."

Cameron nodded, and Light continued. "They've asked that I don't cause any more trouble than I already have; my father wants to discuss something with me later, so he wants me to 'be in my right mind' for it. His words, not mine." He'd punctuated the phrase with air-quotations, like the idea was absurd. Cameron found herself agreeing with him there, that Light's parents' attitude towards his mental illness, the way they'd phrased it, was completely and utterly wrong. They seemed to be treating their son like a mischievous school-boy who had been doing his utmost to provoke his teachers and get himself expelled; like a wayward delinquent determined to deviate, to cause upheaval for the sake of it, to 'stick it to the Man', as it were.

He was staring back down again, back at the strait-jacket, his expression almost unreadable. He lapsed into a silence, unbelievably still as he seemed to stare off into a distance, not even blinking. It was unnerving, to say the least, the way his neck remained lo0cked in what should have been an almost impossible angle to maintain for long, the way his hands remained motionless on the jacket, his fingers seeming to be held by tiny ridges between the fibres. The only movement she could detect was the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed, but even that was light, indistinct. How Chase had the courage to, she'd never know, but he began to wave a hand gently in his line of sight, gesturing for his attention. "Hello?" he asked, too unobtrusive, too easy to ignore, "Light?"

Suddenly, like a snap, his neck moved upwards with a jerk, until he was staring into Cameron's eyes. Chase balked a step backward, unable to hide his shock like the insensitive man he was. Thankfully, light ignored him as he had the waves, not turning his attention off Cameron. "I feel sick." He whispered. There was nothing much to it but the words, no tone to it to add much more meaning than that.

Cameron moved closer to him, fitting into her nursing role almost instinctively. "What do you mean?" she asked, "Do you need to visit the bathroom with Dr Chase or…?"

Light shook his head. "I'm sick of this room." He said. "I'm sick of the bed, the table, the walls. I don't want to look at them anymore."

She relaxed. She was relieved, but not quite visibly. "So," Chase asked, jumping the gun, "you're just bored?"

Light nodded. "You could say that, yes."

"Aren't you always bored? I thought you'd be used to it by now."

That comment was offhand, but earning of a glare of offense from the patient. "You'd think so, but you'd be wrong. I'm genuinely bored." It sounded like a criminal trying to justify himself, but without the keynote desperation or common expression. "I need a change of scene, something new to see, something new to do, a new set of faces… it's driving me mad just staying in here. I need to get out."

Cameron didn't respond straight away, merely looked over to Chase, who gave the same look back in return. Unease, wariness, apprehension. They were all in his eyes, and this time they were reflected in hers also. There was no doubt as to what the Australian was thinking, as the same thought was on her mind. Could we trust him?

If Light had detected it, he didn't show it, keeping his eyes downcast, as though awaiting judgement. If he had anything to add, he didn't add it. The silence left in the air, on the tail of his request was tense, a bitter aftertaste as it grew longer, harder to break, a tell-tale sign of doctor-patient insecurity in trust.

Without a second glance at Cameron, Chase broke it, a hard stab at the stale stillness. "Do you mind," he asked, "if we just do outside a moment?" Light nodded, permitting their absence, no upturns, no changes in expression, just stares.

They left the room, no words passing either of their lips until the door was slid shut behind them. Even as they'd left the room, they'd seen neither hide not hair of those brilliant red eyes, no clairvoyance, just scowl. As severe as he was, a judgemental, they both knew that he didn't need any extra sensory perception to know what was wrong with the whole situation: Any other patient, anyone else at all, and there would have been no need to ask for temporary liberation – it would have been theirs without question. But for him to have to ask, for them to have to pause like that and think about it, it was sending all the wrong signals, all the _wrong messages._

_We don't trust you, Light Yagami. Turn around, and we think you'll kill yourself. Turn a blind eye, and we're sure you'll hurt someone else, if not yourself. You not like everyone else, you're different. You're dangerous, and you know it. We don't trust you._

Ryuzaki had warned them about that, advised against tying him up and treating him like a criminal or a real madman. He had specifically told them not to restrict his movement. Not restraining him was absolutely necessary if they were to get through to him, prove that they were different to every other doctor that had attempted to treat him thus far. They had to prove that they knew what they were doing, that they had faith in him, that they trusted him as a person more than anything else.

"We're not following the rules here, are we?" Cameron asked, looking up at Chase.

Chase just nodded, rubbing the back of his neck in something akin to frustration. "I know. Ryuzaki said we shouldn't lock him up like the others did, but that was before we let him have at the Drano. Besides, Ryuzaki did say to keep him in his room."

"I have to agree with you," Cameron replied. "but you heard him in there: He's bored."

"So?" Chase shrugged his shoulders.

"So, I think that's reason enough. We know now that it was boredom that practically started this whole thing off – id he hadn't been bored all the time, time would never have happened."

The blond sighed. "That's like saying 'If Albert Einstein didn't work at a patent office, he would've never worked out the speed of light' – even if there's actually a connection between the two events, you can't really prove it, and it doesn't make much sense in either case."

"But this kid is a genius!"

"So?" he asked again. "What has that go to-?"

"Oh please, Robert! You and I should know better than anyone what happens when a genius gets bored, or doesn't get enough stimulation-" Chase stifled a snigger, and Cameron paused, shooting him a filthy look. He shrunk back, and she continued, "or doesn't get enough _mental _stimulation; we've been working with one day-in, day-out for a long time now!"

"You mean House?"

"'The kettle called, he wants the pot to get his own colour', remember?" The look she gave him was meaningful; holding his gaze until she was sure the meaning hadn't escaped him.

"So you think he should be allowed out of his room and permitted to possibly do more damage just because he bears a resemblance to our boss?"

"No, I think he should be let out because it would do him more good to be able to walk around and have something else to do than it would be to keep him shut up all the time, especially for his mental health. If we're not careful, he'll start resenting it, and before you know it he'll be pacing like some criminal awaiting trial, and then…"

"And then…?"

"We give our last goodbyes to House and it's back to square one for Light."

"Ah." Chase seemed to be acknowledging what she was talking about, but he didn't seem convinced.

"He's taken his sedatives. We'll ask that he just stay on this floor and just have half an hour, just enough until his parents arrive."

Chase sighed. He seemed on the verge of giving in, but not quite.

Would you rather he had my phone so we can keep in touch of his whereabouts?" Camer9on was joking, of course, cracking wise in the face of frustration at her colleague's pig-headedness, but as he slipped into a state of thoughtfulness, she couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into now.

"You know," Chase responded, his voice positive, in agreement, "I might just agree if we can do that, yeah." The brunette sighed, already seeing where this was going.

"But," he continued, "if something or someone gets hurt or killed because of this, I'm telling House and Ryuzaki exactly why we let him out." Cameron could only nod in the face of the compromise as she pulled her little silver flip-open cell out of her lab coat pocket, handing it over to Chase with significant reluctance.

What point was there to being the 'Ninja Assassin's biggest fan' when you had to compromise the safety of people and possessions alike?

* * *

For as far as he could immediately remember, hospitals had been a big part of his life. Day in, day out, if he wasn't in one, he was travelling to one. All this time around hospitals, around doctors and general physicians in their coats and scrubs, using complex jargon that he'd never heard used in general conversation before… it was certainly an education. Had it not been for the surrounding masses of guilty filth, of criminals just waiting for the jail houses to swallow them whole, he might have found it…

Stopping himself in his tracks just short of a gurney bearing a bald-headed girl, her blue eyes fixed on his as it trundled by, surgeons gently pushing him to the side as they guided it on its path to a theatre unknown, he had to pause to think. What was that word? He was sure he knew, sure he'd used it before, but at that present moment, he didn't rightly know it. It was on the tip of his tongue, he was sure it was, but until something thought to come along, stand on his shoeless feet and spur on his lagging mind, he just couldn't…

_There! _Shoving the silver women's phone into his phone, he fixed his gaze on the target, the island at the centre of the atrium, a pile of paperwork and telephones supported by glorified receptionist desks, chairs pushed against the front, a crutch leaned haphazardly against the side, manned by nurses signing pieces of paper and sending pills to be shipped off to various ends of the building, gossiping to one another noisily like the lunch hour had already come.

… _Fascinating._

Yes, that was the word. That was the word right there, and right there was the place to see it in action. Indeed, now that he thought about it, couldn't one call the Nurses' Station the nerve centre of the hospital, the one place that kept it all kicking off in the right places at the right times? And for the right people? Except for the occasional missing link, he'd have to say so.

The missing link. Even in the best of institutions, he had to admit that there was always one of them, the one member of staff who could always cock it up, who could always have it all go wrong even when that didn't seem possible. In this hospital, in Princeton-Plainsboro, he could say there were two of them, Dr House included. As for the other one…

Light scanned the Station, finding that missing link almost instantly amongst the sea of professionals, talking to a blonde-haired teenage girl holding a clipboard like they were colleagues at the water-cooler. The girl looked reluctant, like she couldn't stand this missing link who managed to intrude on her personal space, who refused to look at her clipboard even when she pushed it towards her like she couldn't stand it either. As patients, visitors, and staff alike began milling about the atrium with polite abandon, he weaved through to the Nurses' Station, coming to stand by it beside the girl on her left side, his arms resting on the high front as he listened in on the conversation, his foot tapping, restless.

"You know, I still can't understand how such a mean kitty as your Sheba managed to win the New Jersey Cat show a few days ago-" Its voice was low for a female's, and fast as it cantered through dialogue like a Grand National winner.

"Well, if you can't understand, could you at least-"

"I mean, I've known her since she was born, of course, and boy was she ever wild then!" the missing link cut her off, ignoring her pleas as easily as never hearing them.

"Seriously ma'am, I came in to get switched to some other doctor, okay? Cause my mom applied for it a few days ago, and it's still not-"

The conversation seemed like it would continue on like that for a while, and so he tuned it out, focusing on the missing link itself, taking in its long dark brown hair, its olive skin and relaxed, sedate expressions. Theodora Theofilopoulos, 'Dora' to everyone. Practicing nurse by profession, a cat fancier by hobby – in fact, the breeder of Miss Linda Tailor's white Persian Sheba. Greek immigrants for parents, but never been to the country herself. Lazy, insensitive, a daydreamer in all senses of the word. Not a criminal in a legal sense – just criminally incompetent.

"Excuse me, sir?" A woman's voice, vaguely familiar. He turned to it, coming face-to-face with another nurse, another dark-haired beauty. The moment she caught sight of his face, she startled, her eyes so wide for a moment. He ignored it, somewhat, pretending it never happened, offering a smile as though she had done the same. She recognised him, and it didn't seem she was happy for it.

"I'm sorry," Light replied, his smile easy, non-threatening. "Am I in the way here?"

"Oh- oh no, you're not." The smile she gave was forced, uncomfortable, but the message clear: I don't want to talk to you. I'd be more at ease in the company of the Leader of the Free World, than here with you. Her eyes looked him up and down, apprehensive, anxious, and the look he returned was one of mild amusement, entertaining her interest. His smile widened slightly, knowingly as her features began ringing a bell for him, and she looked downward, realising he noticed her looks.

Is something wrong?" He asked. He knew this sincerity, this sympathy was faked, but she didn't seem to hear it, for she refused to look up again, giving a sigh.

"It's nothing." She said. "It's kind of stupid, really."

"Yes," he agreed, nodding his head. "I suppose it would be stupid for a nurse to be afraid of someone she's already treated." She began to nod, only to stop mid-gesture to shoot him a wide-eyed look again, one that was quickly becoming associated with her in his mind, like her only expression. In that moment, he read her memories, watching through her eyes as she'd scrubbed him down in that bathroom, his mother beside her, aiding her, her eyes always passing over the grim scars on his body, unable to look at anything else, knowing the whole time that he'd carved them into his own skin, made himself look the freak.

A visible wince and Nurse Regina was daring to look him in the eye, still staring. "You…" she whispered, voice trailing off.

"Yes," he replied. "I remember."

For the first time since he'd met her formally, she smiled, and stopped being quite so awkward. "So," she said, "what are you doing out and about like this?" Her tone was friendlier, approaching playful. "Does Dr Cameron know?"

Light nodded, pulling out the little cell phone. "Yeah, but Big Brother's watching, apparently." He replaced it in his pocket with sleight. "As long as I don't even think about going onto any other floor, she says I can walk around as much as I like." Regina laughed gently, and from a glance in his peripheral, he watched as the blonde girl turned to look at him, surveying his features, looking him up and down with that not-so-subtle gift of the sexual gaze, as though unaware that he knew she was looking. Letting her catch onto his knowing with a slight wink in her direction, he returned his attention to the nurse, acting in the assumption that her had never seen or acknowledged the girl in his entire life, and the nurse hadn't just witnessed him doing so.

The girl wasn't too bad look, for an American, and she knew how to dress herself, certainly. Yet… with her shoulder-back attitude, a standing pose oozing arrogance more than mere confidence, he didn't think much to her at all in ways of attraction. She was, he had to admit, too much like himself, like the worst parts of his true personality housed in a little white, blonde, female form.

"Does she really?" Regina asked, trying to supress another laugh, "I would've thought she'd learnt her lesson the other day… or does she want another reminder?" She raised a sassy dark eyebrow at him, in a way that seemed just a tiny bit too suggestive to be professional. For once, he was glad the whole conversation was in English, and that the subtle insinuation had gone right over his head. In fact, he was extraordinarily glad, just for the images his overactive mind had been spared from viewing.

Indeed, it was now his turn to avert his eyes. How glad he was then, when a middle-aged man in a suit and holding a leather satchel walked up to stand on his other side, interrupting Regina in her torture to ask her questions of his own.

Excuse me, Miss, but I need to see Doctor House." His voice was a low, unforgiving baritone, possessing a drilling quality that seemed to send shockwaves into the subconscious. Looking over to the man, he saw short, dark, greying hair and thick eyebrows, large horn-rimmed glasses and a roman nose. Dressed in a light grey suit, he looked and sounded like a man who could drive a roomful of people to major depression in one afternoon, who could give those people no reason to live any longer. In short, he was as much an Economics teacher one could possibly be without actually teaching Economics.

"Oh," Regina gave a practiced, plastic smile. "I'm sorry, but you can't see him right now – Dr House's schedule is completely full today, you might not be able to see him until tomorrow.

"Then I can wait until lunch." The man said, insistent.

"I'm sorry," Regina sighed, the act almost pantomimed, "but Dr House will be busy then."

"With what?"

"Eating his lunch." She said. "He's a very busy man, and unless you go to the walk-in clinic, you won't see him today." As reasonable as the suggestion sounded, it still didn't seem to settle with him – he had that look in his eye, one that seemed to crackle through the mind behind, and didn't want to leave well enough alone.

To Light, it seemed rather familiar.

The man sighed and turned to sit down on one of the empty chairs pushed against the front, sinking into it as though deflated, his satchel on his lap, the front panel shifting, leaving it open to the world. For a moment, he couldn't understand why the man had done it (he himself was far too restless, his foot still tapping to its own beat) but, as with everything else, the mystery became clear far too quickly. Imitating the man's sigh, he slunk out of sight and into the chair beside the man, looking away, letting him sigh again and find a piece of calm amongst the chaos of the atrium.

"Excuse me?" Light began, looking back to the man. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you want to see Dr House so badly?" The man returned the gaze, dark eyebrows forming a scowl rather than reply. "Let me start again: If you want to see him so badly, why haven't you gone to the clinic like anyone else?"

The man looked down, then back up again, seeming to stare off to an indeterminate point. "I need to see Dr House," he said, finally, "but not for my health."

"Oh, really?" his voice was one part amusement, another part concern, but detached as he focused on the man behind the psychological plea for help. Mr Stein, an old friend of House's. A teacher at a local high school, yes, but of American History rather than Economics. A twist just big enough to be interesting, but not by much.

"Yeah." Mr Stein gave another sigh, this one of exasperation more than anything else. "What about you?"

"Huh?"

"Sorry. You just don't look like a patient."

"Oh," Light smiled, excusing the rudeness for plain ignorance. "I was just having a chat with these lovely nurses here." He gestured to Regina, who was now busy answering a phone call. The tone was a tad flirting, and Regina gave him a saucy wink, which Light returned before returning his gaze to Mr Stein. "So," Light continued, "why do you want to see Dr House? I wouldn't have thought you'd want to go near that man unless it was absolutely necessary."

"Ha." A low sound, not really amused, almost sardonic. "is that what you've heard from the nurses?"

Light shook his head. "No, it's just my opinion. I mean, for a man who save lives, he seems pretty dangerous, you know? Like you could end up worse off in one way or another just by being near him."

A real chuckle this time. "So you've met him?"

Light nodded. "He seems to have that… aura about him, you know?"

"Well, you would know." Mr Stein muttered, before continuing on a different string of thought when Light's head tilted slightly in question. "I mean, yes, I've known him since… high school, was it? And…"

He switched off about halfway through. Light's lips took on a half-smile of interest, feigned though it was as he tuned out the drivel, the drone of the man's bass voice becoming nothing more than background radiation, dull but harmless as he let his mind take to other things, his eyes to other details in the surroundings. Regina talking on the phone, tapping on the keys of the computer keyboard; Dora still in a deep, one-sided conversation with Linda Tailor, the girl looking at her watch in exasperation; the people rushing to and fro, wheeling chairs, gurneys, sitting and standing, not knowing nor caring that Mr Stein was speaking a little too quickly, that his eyes shifted, blinking rapidly, perspiring considerably, distracted but focused, like a man on the precipice, like a man who _wants to get it over with_.

Light too began to focus, this time following an urgent little nudge to the satchel. He could see the tops of textbooks and notepaper inside it, and he could imagine a selection of pens and external memory software as well, typical items for a teacher. There was more though, he was sure, something that made the man hold the bag to him rather than sling it from the chair, most definitely. He changed his line of focus, aiming higher to Mr Stein himself, to the myriad of thoughts that were bleeding freely out of him, threatening. They didn't seem to hold a focus, like the thoughts of a dying man determined to spark up before they fizzled out again, however much at random they did.

A weight in his arms, on his heart. Scowls, head-holding, teeth gritting, rushes of panic all at once before strokes of lethargy once more, biting like a blade-edge. One face in his thoughts, smirking, haunting, taunting to no end. A pair of lips surrounded by stubble. Crystal blue eyes filled with cruel mirth, glaring down upon this squirming insect, screaming a silent pest scream, limbs pulled from the thorax, bleeding blue, and those eyes, those irises matching so perfectly to the blood, they said… they said…

_Just as I thought... Pathetic. _The smirk burst forth once more, and ignited, exploding in a cloud of gunpowder, a click, and a cartridge, gun metal.

He didn't think he came to the conclusion he did, more that it came to him, and he sighed. He stood up, his eyes never leaving the man's, just staring, one hand balled into a fist, the other stretching out, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Light thought it would bleed out of him, that it would leave him and enter the man, empty him and leave him too empty to stand, but it didn't. It fought against the contact, like a magnet against its twin pole, and it twisted in him, squeezing, tearing.

The man looked up at him, disbelieving the scene, the young man stood above him, emitting a gesture like a wise prophet. "Yes?" The man asked, joining his level, the satchel still clutched to his chest.

Light didn't say anything. His eyes lined up with the shoulder. The tension was high, almost forcing him to put a foot forward, and he did, his arms lifting and stretching, reaching around the man's middle, pulling the grey suit to him. He buried his head into the left shoulder, rubbing a nuzzle as the claws gave a squeeze within, body tensing up against him, requesting leave as a tear leaked out, a spot of moisture on the suit.

Kira didn't let go. He exhaled slightly, letting his hands rise and rest at the shoulder blades, careful, intimate. It rose like smoke, and Kira raised his head, taking it out from the shoulder crook, lifting until lips were at the ear. Exhale again. A shiver against him, a breath hitched in the chest, and his arms constricted. The satchel was crushed almost painfully between them, until he could feel the shape of the contents at his chest, the lump of irregularity there, hard like an alloy. Exhale again. It froze in fear. He felt a bubble of laughter about his thoracic diaphragm, fighting up to his throat. He released it gradually, an unvoiced ghost like speeded gasps. He could practically feel the cold creeping up the man's spine beneath his fingers.

"Benjamin." Kira whispers, and only the man can hear, breath hitched. "I know why you're here. I know who you're here to see, what you're here to do…" The man stiffens, and he stiffens too. It's clawing at him from within, digging into his chest, his ribs as footholds as it spreads, tenses, tightens. "I can't let you."

Another hitched breath. An involuntary gasp. "Wh… wha…?"

"I won't let you. You're filth, scum, undeserving of life, and you'll spread, like you have so many times before… I won't let you. You've cheated and sinned, you'll do it again. You'll multiply through temptation, and I can't have it. The world is rotting because of dirt like you; it's dying thanks to the poison you're infecting the next generation with."

He was shaking now, actually shaking, the only real part of the surroundings with focus now. "Just as I thought..." Kira whispered, his voice slightly louder, a smirk playing at his lips. If anyone deserves the honour of taking Dr House's life…"

Now! Oh yes, now!

A lunge, spring-loaded. Spilling freely, mania at all sides. His jaw dropped, teeth baring, sunk down, sunk in. Flesh, cartilage. Swung back, tearing, free.

Red burst forth. An inhuman sound, so low, loud, penetrating the inner ear, and his hands flung to the sides of his head, stepping back, mouth filled with warmth open as it fell out on the ground, a scrap of flesh so distinct, it was unreal.

"… It's me." Kira finished, as the warmth erupted upon him, a heavy weight fell, the scream conducting further more of them throughout the atrium. The satchel was on the floor, the irregularity escaped, a gun that Kira kicked away and Light watched after. Hands fell to his sides as chaos erupted around him, cry after cry after shriek as the History teacher thrashed, louder than any other, hands clutching at the left side of his head, blood pumping out, Kira stood above him. His eyes glared down at the mess, those eyes, those irises matching so perfectly to the blood, and they said… they said…

"Pathetic." Kira whispered, expression hard and body light as he turned, picking up the still-leaning crutch as he walked away, brandishing it like a lance. The crowd of fear parted his way, and he walked unhampered away from the Nurses' Station, out of the atrium, finding two doors set in the wall beside each other at the one end. In his head, one seemed to lead to certain death, the other to freedom, though neither of them led on their affiliation.

Allowing a smile, he looked over his shoulder, thought a moment and chose the one on the left. Be it for preservation or pleasant fancy, he had a very good feeling about taking the stairs.

* * *

Cameron sighed, taking her time walking through the corridors to the atrium. She had only given Light 30 minutes to have a walk about and do what he wanted outside his room, be that walking laps around the atrium or talking with the nurses at their Station (she wasn't sure how, but she imagined him as the charming patient, who often found themselves on first-name basis with all the staff before discharge, no matter how long their stay was scheduled for). It had seemed unreasonable, at first, to give him such little time, but the way she saw it, an hour would be far too much, more than enough time for a resourceful person to wreak havoc, and fifteen minutes would never be enough to enjoy and appreciate the change in scene, and yet not enough for havoc either. Thirty, after all, was a perfectly nice, round number. Easy to calculate at any point on the clock face, enough time to do a number of things. Nurse Regina was on her shift at the moment, and Cameron was sure she could trust her to keep the ship run tightly, to make it hard for the boy to do too much.

What kind of person was she? Did she really not trust a seventeen year old at all? Did she really need a way of contacting him, an overt entourage and covert espionage before she trusted that he would do the right thing? That he would keep his word? Objectively, she sounded like the typical parent of any teenager, a pushy, suspicious person who forgot what it was like to be young and carefree, and saw rebellion in obedience at the best of times.

Yet, one had to be subjective as well. This was a 17 year old mental patient in a teaching hospital not specifically built for his needs. He was undeniably ill, and desperately bored, in a situation no better than the one he was first in. It didn't have to be this way, it never had to, but it was because he differed so greatly from everyone else – he was a genius, a genuine one, with more intellect and potential at his age than she'd previously thought possible. He had creative ideas, creative ideals, but a thoroughly destructive method for it. He was altruistic, certainly, but so self-centric it was difficult not to find yourself orbiting him before too long, fitting yourself to him rather than working him to your schedule, while wondering how one person could be so shallow and selfish.

Perhaps she was asking the wrong question here. Perhaps, she thought, the more prudent question here would be 'What kind of person was Light? She decided that House, with his Rubik's Complex, would call him a puzzle. Foreman would call him a charity case. Chase? Probably a 'Bloody Pain', complete with twang. Once upon a time, she might have agreed with Foreman, and decided that he was just a scared boy who needed their help. However, she had slept since then, learned since then, took on more experience. With Light Yagami in particular, she couldn't take on the same ideals she once did, couldn't be the emotional slave that she tended to become. In fact, with all of the ideas set before her, with Light in mind, she found her mind leaning in the opposite direction to her usual stance.

In any case, Light was an impossible person. That was as certain as the door in front of her, as certain as opening it. There was simply no doubt as she found herself in the atrium and…

Chaos. Absolute, tumultuous, unholy chaos. All around, people were rushing and screaming, crying, trying to leave. The nurses were insisting on order. Blood showered the floor, staining deep onto the flooring, a pool kicked to trail off elsewhere. Through the milling of people, Nurse Regina, Dora, and another nurse were tending to a middle-aged man lying on the floor, whimpering by the Nurses' Station as they put pressure on a wound on the left side of his head, right where he ear should be… which lay forgotten merely feet away long with a pair of glasses, the entire organ surrounded by at least an inch of torn flesh, some of the hairline taken with it. Her head lifting as she heard Cameron stepping towards her, Regina sighed, taking a moment to show Dora how to apply pressure to a severed artery properly before standing up to greet Cameron.

The first thing she did was shudder, and Cameron's eyes widened. That wasn't a good sign, not in any book, especially when it came from a fully trained nurse. "Why did you let him out?" Regina asked. It was a demand, outrage, and Cameron wasn't sure how to reply.

"Why did I…?"

"Wherever you found that kid, send him back, because until you lock him up and throw away the key, I'm not doing you anymore favours!" This wasn't like Regina, this outrage, this lack of temperament control, and as she turned back to the patient, Cameron caught her arm, not letting her go for a moment.

When did it happen?" Cameron asked, or rather, demanded. She closed her hand tighter around Regina's arm, not letting her go, though she tried. "How many minutes ago did it happen?"

Regina jerked her arm away, but only just. "It was twenty minutes ago, okay? More than that." Grateful, Cameron turned away, muttering a thanks before offering another glance at the middle-aged man losing blood from the side of his head, wondering why it had taken so long for someone to get him proper treatment, or to even fetch a gurney.

Not far away, up against the Nurses' Station side, was a blonde teenager, crouched up and sobbing, hands at her face. There were spots of blood on her, and she looked shaken up, in shock, but she was otherwise healthy. However, as Cameron had long since learned at this particular hospital, that wasn't always a guarantee of complete health by the end of the day. She went to her, crouching down to touch her shoulder gently. The girl looked up at Cameron, her blue eyes rimmed red and bloodshot, her lips quivering.

"Are you okay?" Cameron asked, her voice gentle, soft, the right amount of caring. The teenager merely nodded her head in response, didn't elaborate. "I need you to tell me what happened, alright?" The doctor didn't mean to be quite so blunt, but there wasn't much time for niceties, not if Light was concerned.

The tears began to well, and the girl had to swallow a number of times to keep them from spilling, from breaking her voice. When she finally spoke, she whispered, speech punctuated with sobs. "The-there was th-this cute guy and… and…"

"Go on." Cameron encouraged. "What happened next?"

"He, he…" she paused a moment, frowning in thought. "He just hugged Mr Stein… my history teacher… l-like they were _together_… you know?"

"I know what you mean." Cameron said. She certainly did, but she wasn't sure the girl did. She looked confused, almost as though concussed, and most definitely sounded it, in any case.

"Well… he hugged him, and, and… so, like, like…" her voice broke, and she broke into sobs, Cameron keeping her hand on her shoulder. She didn't need to utter any words of encouragement, for the girl swallowed them back herself, continuing bravely. "_Red._"

"Red?"

"Blood, eyes, ear, blood… red." Her speech was becoming jumbled, disorganised, like word salad, just an effect of the shock, she was sure. But, the focus wasn't there for Cameron – the girl had provided it for her.

"Eyes?" She asked. The girl nodded, and the chord was struck, just like that. "What did he look like?" Cameron added. "The guy?"

The girl frowned again in thought. "He… he was…" she thought another moment. "I dunno… cute… Asian? Brunette, like, light brown, and…" her expression turned graver, like stone. "Red eyes."

"Red eyes?" Cameron asked. Could she really mean…? No. It couldn't be possible. They'd been giving him sedatives since yesterday. He shouldn't have the mania… no, the energy to do… what?

"I… I don't know his name." The girl added. She really wasn't coping. Her mind was everywhere, and she was crying again, sad that she couldn't remember. Cameron doubted that the girl had caught his name at all, but she couldn't comment, not while the girl was in that state.

"That's okay." Cameron assured her, making to help her up off the floor. "Just wait in one of the chairs here to calm down, and someone will be right with you." The girl nodded, picking herself off fairly well considering the state she was in. She wanted to stay with the girl herself, treat her for the shock now, but she knew she couldn't. It was Light, all Light, undoubtedly so. After all, she should've seen it coming: the whole thing seemed to smack of his handiwork, somehow.

Maybe it was because of the macabre over-tone. Maybe it was that it was a public performance, like the first one here and the ones before. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the Aesop-style ironic 'punishment' that it seemed to resemble (she wouldn't really know, because she didn't possess his gift).

Oh God.

She paged the others, and within minutes Chase was running down the corridor to the atrium, House hobbling not far behind. He was stopped in his tracks before he even reached Cameron, captured by the sight of the carnage and chaos, taking it in as Mr Stein was finally wheeled away. "Oh my God." He whispered. The casualties weren't quite as many as the last time; this was by far the worst.

"So," House asked, finally within feet of the scene. He… he didn't look angry at all – it was as though, she was sure, he was so furious that he'd surpassed expression. "What happened?"

Cameron opened her mouth, but found she couldn't say it. The pieces had long since fit together in her mind, long since become one truth, but it didn't stop her from refusing, from failing to acknowledge it was true.

"I…" she began. She had to tell them. This wasn't about a boy right now. No, this was a case, a terrible one, but a case all the same. They all had to know. "It was Light. Chase and I let him out for half an hour, and…" Chase raised his eyebrows, "then he bit the ear off a civilian." Chase's eyebrows rose just that little bit more, threatening to disappear into his fringe as House glared back at her. She was sure this had to be the perfect opportunity for a tirade of jokes, a whole host of hoots at the expense of the most unfortunate man and his most unfortunate latest victim. This was different, however. For one thing, she was sure he knew she wasn't joking, not now.

This was Light Yagami, capable of anything. Only now, when they said that, they really did mean anything.

"You're not kidding… are you?" Chase asked. Cameron shook her head, as did House.

"When did he?" House asked.

"What?" Chase asked.

"How many minutes between letting him out of his cage and him mauling some poor sap was there?"

Not even ten minutes, apparently." Cameron said, following with a sigh.

"How? What'd he use?"

"I don't know. I've not seen any possible weapons. The ear came off with some of the skin around it as well, so it was very rough, however it was."

Chase shuddered, and House ignored it. "So, how?"

"How?" Chase whispered.

"How did our sedated manic-depressive take off a man's ear with what we can only assume was his teeth? Any ideas, Irwin?"

Chase shook his head, practically mute, and Cameron was beginning to understand why. For whatever reason, he had become the morally outraged one of the team, and found himself far too affected by the news, if not by the blindsiding reference to the recent death of one of Australia's greatest countrymen.

House answered the silence with walking off, making his way back down to the corridor to Light's room, the other two doctors hurrying behind him. Pushing the door open with his free hand, he found what he was looking for: The cup of orange juice, still sitting out on the bedside table and yet to be cleared away. Picking it up, lifted it to his nose, sniffing at it before deftly tipping it onto the floor without a murmur. Chase jumped back.

"Now," House said, "Why would someone with no sense of taste want to wash the taste away?" He pointed to the floor with the cup, and Cameron took it in. The orange was off-colour, as though spoiling, and little lumps of non-pulp could be seen, not yet dissolved, not yet part of the dangerous solution.

"He didn't." Chase finally said. "He's paranoid. If he won't touch hospital food, he not going to be touching the pills, whether he knows what they're for or not."

"A gold star for you." House said, giving a half-smile at the progress. "Now, it's just finding the kid."

"Isn't that important?" Chase asked. "You know, something we do first?"

House shook his head, allowing another smirk. "We could've, but then we wouldn't know why and how he did it, and then we wouldn't know what we're dealing with here." Leaving the mess for Blue the janitor, he limped out again. "Keep up, children, this is Diagnosis 101."

Back in the atrium, they surveyed the scene once more.

"I think I have an idea where he's gone." Cameron said, her eyes falling once again upon the trail of blood. "He must've gone down to the lower floors."

Chase heaved a sound of pure annoyance. "So he could be anywhere."

"No." Cameron said, "He can't be 'anywhere' – just somewhere else."

"That _is_ what I meant!"

"Please, children!" House yelled. "The Ninja Assassin could have left the building by now, and you two are bickering over semantics? If this situation doesn't remain contained to the hospital, the whole borough will be at the kid's mercy, I'll get sued again, and there would be enough of the House Got Sued Fund for next week – is that what you want?" The underlings shook their heads, and they made to follow the trail of blood leading away from the scene and out to the elevator and stairs. As the trail indicated, he'd taken the stairs, making this a little easier, but not by much. They were about to follow the trail down when they heard footsteps making their way towards them, turning to see Ryuzaki, doll mask slipping until he managed to adjust it short of revealing his face.

"Well," House said, "if it isn't Rue Ryuzaki, P.I?" The man didn't even roll his eyebrows in return, just waited for House to finish, a cell phone held in his fingers.

"I'm glad I caught you in time." Ryuzaki said. He seemed to mean it as well, his voice less of the drone than customary.

"What?" Chase asked. "Why?"

"I've just received an important phone call, one you should know the contents of."

"Oh, really?" House smirked. "What is it? Have I been suspended indefinitely because my employees let the rabid kitty out of his cage?"

"No," Ryuzaki replied. "But it has something to do with that, yes."

"So, something like… I don't know, that the very definition of psycho is on the outside and about to make the Princeton Borough his bitch?"

"Exactly, but with a significant difference: He _was_ on the outside, and he _was_ about to make the Princeton Borough his bitch. He won't now."

"He won't now?" Cameron asked.

"That's right. I've had the local police on hand since earlier this morning, and at 12:14pm, on Sunday 10th September, more than fifteen minutes ago, one Light Yagami was arrested and taken into custody of the New Jersey Police Department, Princeton branch. He will stay there until they see fit to let him go free."

Cameron made to lunge for the Detective, but Chase took hold of her by the shoulders, keeping her fast. "Why the hell did you do that?" she yelled, struggling against the doctor. "What good will that do, you lying, back-stabbing piece of candied-"

"Back-stabbing? I was quite sure you were aware that I was out collecting information yesterday on what happened at the other hospitals. As it happens, what I found was directly linked to the secondary reason for my presence here, for my case."

"Case?" Chase asked. "What has Light got to do with the missing Vicodine shipment?"

"Nothing at all. I was lying when I told you that."

"About you working on the case."

"No, about the case even existing. It was a perfectly good excuse for Dr Cuddy, and all I had to do was produce the right paperwork to suggest it. No, this is a different case I'm talking about, the same one I did investigation work on yesterday. You see, Light Yagami is the prime suspect of my case, and I did whatever it is I had to do to solve it. If that means arrest for the purpose of gaining information on not only my case but the state of his mental health, then so be it."

* * *

Light was an impossible person. No doubt about that.

* * *

**A/N: For those of you with a weak constitution, I probably should have warned you first. For those of you who disagree with my portrayal of Light's Stress at the beginning, I only have my own experiences of mental illness and OCD to go on, so don't hate too much. For those of you who make a habit of looking out for new and exciting culture references within this, there are quite a few, not only to outside material, but also to the**_** House, MD**_** show itself, so enjoy. For those of you wondering what last chapter's title was all about, it's a song by the new band on the block, 'Black Veil Brides' (or, as I like to call them, 'Emo-KISS'). **

**A few pieces of trivia for you this time. This chapter is unique to all the others because:**

**This is the longest chapter so far. Word docs-wise, it beat the last chapter by about 8 pages, so… 1551 words. Incredible, huh?**

**This is the only chapter so far that WASN'T written and song-titled later, but whose events were inspired by the song it was appellated for. In other words, I heard the song, the scary (and slightly sexual) song, got the idea, and wrote the chapter with it in mind. Usually, I just write the chapter and spend two days or so looking for the right title, so you can imagine my surprise. **

**Brilliant, huh? I'd been waiting to do this chapter for so long.**

**As an additional, let me just tell you that, most of the time, there is a good reason why I choose the songs I do for the chapter titles, so I do urge you to take a listen to them if you haven't already. This one in particular, 'Scream', is a good one. **

**Meanwhile, I am going to create a TV Tropes page for this baby, so if you'd like to help out at all, you can probably just search for it. **

**As for the blood and gore in this, let me say that I am just as concerned as you are, however, while tearing me away from the fanfiction might prevent me from doing this on a public forum, tearing me away from my only outlet may result most definitely in some physical demonstrations. **

**So, the next chapter will be a very long wait, so do be patient, wish me luck for the future, and in turn I'll hope that, when I promised something wonderful, I delivered. **

**Thank you, and please stay tuned for chapter 12. I genuinely love you all. **

**Also, review if/when you can. They are all appreciated. **


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